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TWILIGHT 

jl Collection of Verse 

hy 
GUSTAV MELBY 




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K. C. HOLTER PUBLISHING CO. 

MINNEAPOUS. MINN. 
1921 



Copyrighted 1921 , hy Gustav Melhy 



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MAR 1 1 1922 

General Printing Co. Press, Minneapolis, Minn, 

g)GlA654903 



dedicated to the Memory of 

Mrs. Nellie Gilruth Volstead 

Wife of Congressman Andrem J. Volstead 

Kind and generous, she bound to herself a 
host of loyal friends. 

Truth-loving and firm, she strove to aid the 
noblest measures of righteousness in church 
and state. 

Imbued with the spirit of freedom, she was 
ever a true helpmate to her husband, who for 
many years has served his country as a wise 
and able statesman. 

The home was to her synonymous with hospi- 
tality, and deeds of charity with happy self- 
effacement. 

The truth of life, couched in simplicity, was 
more to her than social splendor; and with 
this as an ornament she moved in the highest 
circles, as well as among the humblest of her 
race. 

All who knew her felt that life was better, be- 
cause of her cheerful words and kindly deeds. 

She honored the traditions of her native 
Scotia, and on America bestowed her self's 
complete devotion. 

"Her sun is gone down while it was yet 
day;'' but the inspiration of her rare person- 
ality lives on in other lives, and especially in 
her loved ones, left behind to finish a great 
task for the good of humanity. 



CONTENTS. 

Page 

Dediciation to Memory of Mrs. Nellie G-ilmth Volstead 3 

In Memoriam 9 

Verses from a Village Garden 

Amber Willows 23 

April 24 

New Leaves 25 

Robin 's Return 27 

The Birch Trees of Norway 28 

A Picture 29 

A Spray of Wild Roses 31 

White Clover 32 

The Pimpernell 34 

Woodland Paths 36 

Morning Glories 37 

Autumn 's Orchestra 38 

Minnehaha in October 39 

An Autumn Scene 40 

The Trysting Tree 41 

The Cricket 's Song 42 

The lone Pine Tree 43 

Morning 46 

Violets 47 

There is a Joy in being all alone 47 

The Pine Wood Cathedral 49 

The Pestilence 50 

A Snowstorm 52 

My Neighbor 51.^ 

In Gwendolyn 's Playhouse 55 

Bethany 56 

The Light of the World 59 

The Cry of Humanity 61 

The Pilgrim's (Cry 62 

A Voice in the Night 63 

The Mariner 64 

Sea Foam 65 

Man 66 



Page 

An Enigma *....> ^ 68 

Problems gg 

A Nocturn 70 

The fiery Furnace and the burning Lamp 71 

Old iWine 72 

It is not long since I was but a Youth 73 

True Eiehes 74 

I would not always cling to Things that perish 75 

To the Memory of my Mother 76 

Contrition 77 

The Time has come that I should close my Door 78 

Come be Thyself 80 

The Irony of Fate 80 

The Mourner 81 

Bide a Wee 82 

Old Age 83 

Home 85 

Eyes 86 

An Immortelle 87 

O, Temporal O, Mores- 87 

Runic Rhymes 

The Battle of Glam and Grettir the Strong 93 

Ygdrasil 95 

Soria Moria Castle 97 

The blood-stained Shirt 99 

Embers 101 

The Indian Mounds at St. Paul 103 

The Moon of the wild Eice 104 

We are not ashamed of our Heritage 108 

1917—1919 

The Forerunner 113 

An Evening Prayer 115 

Footsteps in the Night 115 

St. John's Eve, 1918 118 

Uncle Sam 's Indictment against the Kaiser 120 

Hymn of Victory 124 



Page 

Christmas Morn, 1918 125 

The Angels' Christmas Morning, 1918 127 

The Home-Coming 130 

Senator Knute Nelson 132 

The Aerial Cortege 136 

Thanksgiving 137 

The Iron Horse 139 

Miss Alma Euth Martenson 140 

The Poet 143 

Street Symplionies 

Angels Unawares 147 

The Kindly Car 148 

The Unrest 150 

The Weleome 151 

Faces 153 

Peace 157 

''Deep Calleth unto Deep'' 158 

When the Brook runs low 159 

Twilight 160 



IN MEMORIAM 
Mrs. A. J. Volstead 

Transported by the tender sheen 

Of apple-blossoms and the green 

Of shrubbery and velvet lawn, 

I stood this morning, at the dawn. 

And listened to the thrush's song. 

Which rapturously welled among 

The fragrant foliage; 

And as the morning's smile 

In dewy diamond's mage 

With sweet enchantment's wile 

Possessed my mind, 

Methought I saw her stand behind 

The garden-maze 

Of bloom and verdure, and her face 

Was radiant with heartfelt cheer, 

As in the days she lingered here; — 

But only in a moment's gleam 

I saw her, like a fleeting dream 

Which lost itself in shadows deep 

And cool, where happy spirits sleep 

'Mid nature's mysteries; it lost 

Itself behind the snowy bank 

Of apple-blossoms, which she most 

Did love, and all their beauty drank 

Into her soul for all the year. 

But feeling that her spirit now was near, 

I thus addressed her — in my heart — 

In language of this mundane sphere: 

"Would that in life thou still hadst part! 



In things which thou didst hold most dear: 

Thy home, its garden-plot, and trees, 

Its tulip beds in early spring, 

The vines upon its trellises. 

And blooms profuse which need not cling; 

All these were objects of thy care 

And love, and seemed to gladly bear 

The luxury of gratitude 

In hue and fragrance, and the good 

Of glad simplicity which finds 

Affinity with noble minds. 

Alas! alas! that thou art gone! 
For seldom day like this has shone 
Upon the river's winding stream; 
It seems to dance, and in its gleam 
The finny tribes sport as of yore; 
The cherry trees bloom on the shore ; 
The woods recede up to the hills ; 
And from their dephts the singing rills 
Come down to mingle with the flow 
Of Minnesota, where a throw 
Would land a game-fish, on this morn 
In May, but now such sport is shorn 
Of its exhuberance ; the reel 
And rod no more has such appeal. 
Since thou art gone, who made a day 
Of outdoor life remembered aye. 

While thus I mused, a homeless breeze 
Roamed suddenly among the trees. 
Up from the river-bank it drew, 

10 



And on the apple blossoms blew, 

As when a child breathes on the down 

Of hoary dandilion's crown 

Till some take wings, thus did the breeze 

Bright silver leaves down with him tease, 

And left them on the grass below. 

Like large and shining flakes of snow; 

But to my soul that wandering breath 

Was like the cruel hand of death. 

"Alas!" I said, "that things so sweet 
Must soon be trodden under feet; 
That life which greatest pleasure gives 
Stays briefest, while that longest lives 
Which burdens like a heavy cloud. 
And doth with gloom our souls enshroud ! " 

Past through the crowns another gust 
More strongly than the first, and said: 
"Behold the beauty of the dust 
In which earth's glory must be laid! 
From dust it came, to dust returns, 
And such is man, like grass and bloom; 
But in his breast a hope still burns. 
That he shall live beyond the tomb; 
What matters then how seasons roll. 
When glad, immortal lives his soul ! " 

From garden-glory to the fane 
I turned my gaze, to towV and pane. 
Remembering her simple creed 
In doing well, without the heed 

11 



Of thanks and praise, and how she loved 
To see the house of prayer endowed 
With gifts which rich and poor ahke 
Must know to make the larger hope 
In roots of fruitage deeply strike, — 
True Fellowship. The sunny slope 
Of life is better than the vale 
Of shadows dark and needless tears. 
And better far "well-met and hail,*' 
Than prejudiced and full of fears. 
Let unity with gladness lend 
Their riches to the sacred place. 
Like hues which on its windows blend 
With beauty in the Saviour's face. 

The bloom cannot for ever stay. 
There must be fruit upon the tree, 
Its trancient beauty, but a day. 
Gives promise of the things to be. 
The spring is fair and gladness-fraught. 
But summer months with toil are filled. 
And slowly, silently are wrought 
The good which nature's powers willed. 

Alas, that thou didst leave so soon! 
Who hoped this better day to see. 
For scarcely did it seem life's noon 
With things of promise yet to be. 
When evening-dusk and night came on. 
And told thy working-day was done. 
This day of peace and victory. 
This day when freedom stands supreme, 

12 



I know thou most desired to see. 

And may be saw it in thy dream. 

And why should death this joy debar 

From thee, since thou art not afar? 

But with this new day questions rise 

Which tax the wisdom of the wise ; 

And he who moves in places high 

Where destinies are slowly wrought. 

He would, indeed, that thou wert nigh 

With loving cheer, sagacious thought. 

For in his people's service long 

Thou helped to make him true and strong. 

The Capitol at this great hour 

Needs men of vision, men of power. 

Who love the prize, for which we gave 

Our lads, and all that it might be 

Redemption of true liberty, — 

That Freedom's banner still might wave 

Above our land, a token be 

That man must everywhere be free; 

Who love this prize, and now will guard 

It sacredly with law and strength 

'Gainst anarchy, which like a pard 

Is skulking through the breadth and length 

Of all the world, and snarling takes 

The bread America now breaks 

For all. Ah, guard it well, I say. 

Ye Solons of this mighty land. 

And crush the beast in rags, as well 

As that in purple, both of hell; 

But in this fray a woman's hand 

And heart of love may temper all, 

13 



Yea, give to forms of law a soul, 

In which the rich and poor shall meet 

To make a pact at Freedom's feet. 

And place a garland on her brow, 

And make an everlasting vow 

Of brotherhood, purged from its greed. 

Which makes the heart of mankind bleed. 

•5t* *n v 

How fleet the days of spring, how soon 
Their blithesome beauty takes its wing! 
And I, who mid-May tried to sing. 
Now find it is the close of June. 
Since then the wonders sweet and rich 
Of flowers, changed from day to day. 
For nature's hand doth still array 
Her children, and bestows on each 
Her royal robes, though kings depart. 
Transcending human skill and art. 
The bridal-veil was full this year. 
In richness drooped even to the grass. 
At early morn full many a tear 
Seemed to adorn it for some lass. 
Who lost her lover 'cross the main. 
And now she sits and waits in vain. 
The bridal-veil must pass away 
Without the hoped-for wedding day. 

rp rft !fi 

The honeysuckle gaily stood 
Close to the iron-fence among 
Strange shrubbery which change to blood 
When autumn breezes come along; 

14 



It courted butterflies and bees. 
And bore a smile from morn till eve ; 
Its subtle scents like melodies 
Did seem to say, " 'tis good to live." 
A nosegay from this bush I stole 
To wear it in my buttonhole. 
That something of its soul I might 
Retain amid the human throng. 
To walk within its gleam of light. 
And keep my heart glad with its song. 

V Nt* •*• 

I have not seen for many a year 
The lilacs stand so rich in bloom; 
It seems the breezes wend and veer 
To catch the wealth of its perfume. 
To lift it to the oriole 
Which has a nest high in a tree. 
That to its fledgelings beauty's soul 
May fit them for true minstrelsy. 

**• **• •»• 

Then came the roses, chiefest they 
Of all the flowers in month of June, 
Something no language can convey 
Is theirs in essence, and no tune. 
Though loveliest by master played. 
Can voice their transcendental bliss. 
The nightingale in gloomy glade 
Can tell it; or a maiden's kiss. 
Sweet with the love which fills her heart 

15 



At star-light, when she needs must part 
From him, who as a token 
Of all the fond things spoken. 
Did break it from the garden bush. 
And placed it on her breast. 
And as she lingers in the hush 
Alone, rapt by the love confest. 
She kisses it good night, and knows 
The joy which in its fragrance flows. 
The rose is heaven's masterpiece 
In Flora's realm, and still, perchance. 
The angels steal from Paradise 
To have at this just one brief glahce. 
And tell about it to the bards. 
That it is blooming still on earth. 
And with its thorns the beauty guards 
Which through their souls did seek its birth. 
*p *P *P 

Last came the bright syringea. 
Whose flower, like a woman's eye. 
Looks at you, till you pause and say: 
Thy purity detects a lie. 
However sconced, wherever hid. 
And could we look, as Jesus did. 
Upon the lily, and it clasp 
With not a shadow of a sin. 
Then would no Cleopatra's asp 
Of conscience kill the life within. 
0, purity of white and gold 
Which glistens in the midday sun! 
A woman's heart, the Christ of old, 

16 



And mine the prayers half begun, 

I love you, as I love my child, 

I love you, since my friend loved you. 

And like her look with kindness mild, 

And like her soul so deeply true. 

Ye spread the last white memory 

Of all the days which ne'er return, — 

Ye angels of eternity 

With message from its happy bourn. 

Sp •3P •3P 

"Knee-deep in June," and "dumb in June," 
Are poets' coins and genuine. 
For who can render true the tune 
Which flows so full and so divine? 
One stands abashed, and feels so poor. 
With harp-strings out of chord to catch 
The melodies so sweet and pure. 
Which Seraph-harps alone can match; — 
The tiny warbler shames our song. 
The modest pansy speaks our wrong. 
And makes the poet's broken strain 
A vain attempt, bestowing pain. 
"Knee-deep in June," and "dumb," indeed; 
But words are penned that men may read. 
And that which never can be said. 
And that which never can be read. 
Yet, all may feel in garden gloom. 
In May, or June, which lifts the tomb 
Of the departed to the realms 
Where life immortal overwhelms. 
0, God! could we but know thy love 

17 



In all its fulness, then no cloud 
Of sorrow e'er should gloom our brow; 
Yea, even on the winding-shroud 
Of those we love its light would shine. 
And make our losses half divine. 
fp *p *p 

Yet, even now the clouds obscure 

The sun's effulgence in the west ; 

Dark, storm-filled clouds, of strange contour. 

Mount upward with a frory crest. 

While through their inky bowels flash 

The lightning's gleam with distant crash. 

Which rolls and rumbles like the wheels 

Of armies, charging o'er the fields 

Of heaven,"filling nature's breast 

With fear. The birds fly to their nest 

To shield their babies from the storm. 

And notes of joy are changed to faint alarm. 

No creature thinks of doing others harm. 

While heaven speaks ; and every flower 

Is looking upward for the coming shower. 

Ah, blessed rain, what melody 

Is thine, as on the land and sea 

Thou f allest ! Thousand-tongued sound 

Thou hast : in whispering foliage 

Of woods and groves; the thirsty ground 

Affords a note which doth engage 

Each blade of grass and bending straw 

To humble worship, while the tears 

Like diamonds glitter. 

Across the lake the bright drops go 

18 



With silver-ringing titter, 

And with the brook, which gently cheers 

Each rush and reed, thou blendest 

Thy tune with glee, and sendest 

In dancing foam thy heavenly poesy 

Out to the restless, moaning main. 

But nothing sweeter seems to me. 

Oh, gentle rain! 

Than when in summer nights 

Thoii playest on my cottage roof: 

Then comes thy harmony with such delights 

Of dreams and slumber, and the woof 

Of fairy weaving falls on me. 

And brings the peace of childhood back. 

And closes out the woe and wrack 

Of human misery ; — 

But here, this eve, I bare my head 

Within this garden to receive 

Thy blessing, that I who live 

May be baptized, e'en for the dead. 

And mingle heartfelt tears with thine. 

Amid this misty mystery 

Of earth and heaven, all divine ; 

Soft cypress gloom, and threnody 

Of gentle voices. 

From spirit realms of peace and rest. 

Where silently rejoices 

My noble friend, for ever blest. 

I feel her presence in this place. 

Yea, now behold a vision of her face. 

Beatified, one with the all 

Eternal Life, the Oversoul. June, 1919. 

19 



Verses from a Village Garden 



AMBER WILLOWS 

There stands along the country road 

A hedge of slender willows. 

To which the melting snow-drifts flowed 

Like tears from winter's pillows. 

And in the pool where ripples roved. 

As fickle March was laughing, 

The blue of heaven in splendor glowed. 

Which that tall hedge was quaffing. 

Today the pool is frozen o'er. 
And dark the clouds are soaring. 
While fickle March is murk and sore, 
A-clamouring and roaring. 
But in the willows glows the sun 
With amber sheen and ruddy. 
To tell that spring has just begun 
'Neath half-frorn ponds and muddy. 

Like gleaming swords the saplings swing. 
Long winter's reign defying. 
The Marseillaise they seem to sing, 
And voices strange are crying: 
"Once more the hidden life awakes 
Within its darkened prison. 
And winter's icy fetters breaks. 
The Lord again is risen!" 

I turned to hear the voice that spoke, 
And saw the purple tinting. 
Faint as a veil of moving smoke 
Amid the amber glinting, 

23 



Like dreams of love in maiden's eyes, 
Like joy of poet's yearning, 
As faint as secret love-lorn sighs 
From depths of passion burning. 

Oh, amber willow-tree, how sweet 
Your meaning to the weary. 
Who pass you by with heavy feet 
On highways bleak and dreary! 
Of life, of hope, and love ye tell 
To souls with vision gifted, 
That God still reigns, and all is well. 
And life from death is lifted. 



APRIL 

An artist, painting dainty shades 
Of purple, lavender and green ; — 
In forest, copse and open glades 
His magic touches may be seen; 
He adds a little every day 
Of color-strength harmonious. 
Until at last we look and say: 
"Spring has indeed returned to us ! " 

A poet he, whose heart is full 
With yearning songs and sweet delight. 
Who lifts our souls from duties dull 
To feel the glow of visions bright, 
Whose lyric pastorals are heard 

24 



In divers cadences and tones. 
Sometimes in warblings of a bird, 
Or runnels dancing o'er the stones. 

A lover he, whose clear blue eyes 
Have heaven's glory in their deep. 
Whose moods are like the changing skies 
Which sometimes laugh and sometimes weep. 
Who writes his love on birchen bark. 
And shows his heart in crocus flower. 
And tells it through the meadow lark 
Or through the passion of a shower. 

Therefore, I love this month the best. 
And choose him as the prince of all ; 
I know that wondrous are the rest. 
But none like he of youthful soul, 
A child of hope, a harbinger 
Of all the joys which are to be. 
At whose blithe call all things bestir 
Themselves from winter's dormancy. 



NEW LEAVES 

New, tender leaves are peeping out 
From brownish buds, like opening eyes. 
Like children's eyes they look about. 
And upward to the April skies. 



25 



So pure, so delicately green, 
They give expression to the soul 
That slept in root and branch unseen. 
But woke to nature's vernal call. 

And in my heart awakes a joy 
Which slumbered through the wintry days. 
My harp once more I will employ 
With springtime's love-begotten lays. 

And when the budding of the trees 
No longer moves my heart to song, 
I hope its faithful pulse may cease. 
Which often beat so wild and strong. 

And my last testament shall be. 

That friendly hands plant near my head 

A sapling of some native tree. 

When I am numbered mongst the dead — 

Whose roots some day may strike and find 
My dust commingling with the earth, 
That in the budding-time my mind 
May have through its new leaves rebirth. 



26 



ROBIN'S RETURN 

Blithe minstrel of a chill March-morn, 

Who early sings so cheerily; 

Though fields and woods are bleak and shorn. 

Thou bringest hope of things to be; 

A bard of love amid the cold, 

A bard of joy, though dun the day, 

Who sees the new life in the mould. 

And summer glories far away. 

The old thou linkest with the new. 

Past memories with future dreams. 

And thus thou art a poet true 

Whose song from the Eternal streams. 

Though long and cold our winter days. 

Though deep the snow, and sharp the blast. 

So much the blither seems thy lays. 

They o'er it all a meaning cast. 

Come, build thy nest close to my home, 
Among the branches of my tree. 
That I may hear, as mornings come. 
Thy ever gladsome minstrelsy 
Amid the city's din and roar, 
Amid the strife which man employs. 
Whose life seems growing more and more 
Devoid of nature's peace and joys. 

Come, be my fellow-bard and guest. 
To guide my soul to higher things ; 
I love the crimson of thy breast, 

27 



I love the freedom of thy wings ; 
And could I strike one note like thine. 
Which pleases every human heart, 
All other joys I would resign. 
And give myself to that one art. 



THE BIRCH TREES OF NORWAY 

Ah me! when the birches do silver in May, 

And the thrushes wax gay 'mid their shining! 

My heart with a longing is carried away — 

A longing akin to repining — 

For the birch woods I knew in a far-away land, 

In the leas which slope down to the river, 

Where Spring weaves her robe with such delicate hand 

That the woodlands in ecstasy quiver. 

What streams of aroma did float in the air ! 

What nardus at God's feet was broken! 

What voices, what music delighted me there! 

What Gospel of happiness spoken ! 

0, would I were there from these wearisome ways 

Amid crowds and the noise of a city. 

Where Mammon but plunders, and pleasure but slays 

The child in our souls without pity! 

There is blueness of sky, and the splendor of light 
'Mid the crowns of the birch trees of Norway, 
But sweetest they seem in the long summer-night. 
When Sol has forgotten her door-way; 

28 



And methinks 'tis a sin, 'neath the murk of the smoke, 
To slave to the soul-killing forces. 
While Neptune is calling, and placing the yoke 
On homegoing, fast-fleeting horses. 

God speed you, my people, who thither may turn. 

Take with you to Mother my greeting ! 

And tell her that all her true children now yearn 

To answer her kindly entreating, — 

And tell her I love her for all what she is 

To thousands of homesteads and churches. 

But most for the dreams of the exquisite bliss 

Of a spring-day among her green birches. 



A PICTURE 

"Come, help me!" cried a little lass, 

Down by the river's edge. 

And I, who happened then to pass, 

Rushed to her. In the sedge 

There splashed a fish, held by her line, 

A two-pounder or so. 

"Ha 1 ha ! " I laughed, "your catch is fine. 

As up the thing did go. 

I pried the hook out of its mouth. 
And held the fish to view ; 
The fisher-maiden, with a shout. 
Said: "Hang it there, will you?" 
And pointed to a cherry bush, 

29 



With blossoms white as snow. 
I readily a twig did push 
Up through its bleeding jaw. 

And now a picture I beheld, 

Which craves an artist's hand; 

It from my heart a sigh compelled, 

She scarce could understand; 

A shining silver bass amid 

The blossoms of the tree. 

Whose purple drops fell down and hid 

Mongst flowVs of sympathy. 

For there the violets looked up 

With pity in their eyes, 

And here and there a buttercup 

Smiled to the sunny skies; 

But in the lassie's face there shone 

Commingled joy and pride. 

Though in her voice there was a tone 

Touched by the blood-streaked side. 



30 



A SPRAY OF WILD ROSES 

Some one had placed a spray of wild roses on her 

coffin; 
For it was in the blooming of June, when the road- 
sides 
Are gay with their wealth, when their odor 
Meets us like greetings from heavenly realms; 
Such roses she knew in her youth, while she dwelt 

here, 
Happy and hopeful, dreaming, as maidens do 
In the springtime of life, of the things which the soul 
Considers its birth-right, the bliss which the roses 

proclaim ; 
But sorrow did darken her reason, the light of the 

mind grew dim. 
And decades twain did she sadly spend 
In a house for the stark insane ; 
And there she was granted true rest, at last, from 

her suff'rings. 
And its gates were opened that she might be borne 
To the place where her parents lie, in God's acre. 
Whose dust has waited long years for that of their 

child, — 
For such is life and its tragedies! 
But the roses of June still speak of the love which 

was theirs, — 
Which is ours, and is God's, the love unending. 
The love of the human heart, transcending 
The power of death. 
And the gloom of the grave. 



31 



0, roses of June, rest well on her coffin-lid, 

When the mound has been heaped, and her chapter 

is written: 
The struggle of twenty years, and its closing in night. 
For you have the sweetness of peace and the glow 

of the morning. 
And with you may she enter the portals of life and 

light! 



WHITE CLOVER 

(A Boyhood Recollection) 

When I see the dancing host 

Of the young, white clover, 
Scent the fragrance which is tossed 

Happily all over. 
Then, before the inner eye. 

Rises clear a vision. 
Bright beneath a summer sky. 

Sweet unto contrition. 

Verdant hills, and meadows long. 

White with dainty clover. 
Where was heard the skylark's song. 

As it high did hover ; 
Where the flock, and shepherd boy 

Spent their days contented. 
With a true and inborn joy — 

Lark-winged, flower-scented. 

32 



Many an afternoon I spent 

With that lad, a-playing 
On his Lur, which softly sent 

Tunes, our joys conveying; 
Or, we shot our arrows high 

Through the dazzling gleaming. 
Or, when down the flock did lie. 

Sweetly lay, a-dreaming. 

O'er the far-off hills so blue 

Slanted evening shadows. 
Sunset soon, and cooling dew 

For the clover meadows ; 
To the shepherd boy did rise 

Supper call and homing, 
Bleats of sheep and lamb's caprise. 

In the mellow gloaming. 

And the nights were cool and sweet 

Without pangs of sorrow. 
Rest bestowed on bruised feet. 

Health for the tomorrow. 
And into our sleep there came 

Dreams of nodding clover. 
Never since I've known the same 

O'er my pillow hover. 

Joy that memory has yet, 

'Mid the fields of clover, 
But also a deep regret 

That those days are over. 



33 



Gone forever they, and those 
Whom we loved the dearest, 

Who for years have known repose, 
Although still the nearest. 

Little clover, creamy-white, 

Rare and subtly scented, 
Airy thing; — an elfin sprite 

Hath thy dance invented. 
0, I love to lay me down 

Where thy play is gayest, 
Thou my sorrow canst put down. 

Thou all pain allayest! 



THE PIMPERNELL 

The field of oats is shooting ears. 

With silken blossoms delicate, 
From greenish husks the tiny spears 

Protrude to guard their milky state ; 
But all are hanging limp and faint. 

The scorching sun the whole week shone. 
And prayer for rain by many a saint 

Has risen to the heavenly throne. 

The pink-eyed pimpernell today 
Has closed her lids as if asleep. 

The sultry breezes seem to say 

To drooping heads : "Your courage keep ! *' 

34;. 



This day true comfort to you brings, 
The harvest song shall still be your." 

And through the field a whisper wings : 
"The pimpernell is always sure." 

A gentle, drenching shower fell, 

Refreshing all the thirsty land. 
All nature joins to praise His name. 

Who thus stretched forth His saving hand. 
But nothing happier doth seem 

Than that large oat-field rich and tall. 
It stands as in a love-blest dream, 

With promises of good for all. 

And near its heart a little flower. 

The pimpernell, looks to the sky, 
And all the field believes that shower 

Came just because she closed her eye ; 
She's called the poor man's weather-glass. 

The darling of the growing grain. 
And if you through the oat-field pass. 

Don't harm this prophetess of rain. 



35 



WOODLAND PATHS 

'Tis sweet to roam on a summer's day 
Over woodland paths where the}/^ wend away 
Through dell and dingle and flow'ry glade. 
Half hidden until you almost wade 
In ferns and orchids and things that bloom 
With a richness rare in the forest gloom, 
Leading, perchance, to a madcap brook 
Which dances away to some mystic nook. 
Where dryads still linger, and Pan may be heard. 
And dream-drowsy fairies to dancing are stirred. 
To tarry and feel what the world doth not know, 
*Mid its unhappy strivings, its meaningless show. 

Oh, paths of the woods, lead me on, lead me on! 

I care not a whit whether hither or yon. 

If only the Spirit of Rest I may find, 

If only your peace for a world-harassed mind! 

The farther astray from all cares ye will lead, 

The better, the happier is your meed ; 

To the depths of the wilds, to what still does remain 

Of life unperverted by man's hand and brain. 

And there let me linger a while, and then die 

United with That, as the evening draws nigh. 



36 



MORNING GLORIES 

Fair flowers, purple, lily-white, and red! 
Which thrive in fields or any garden bed, 
Which trail, and climb, and cling, for to adorn 
A wall, a fence, or twig in autumn morn. 

But only once each chalice, dew-besprent. 
Is for the smiling lips of morning meant, 
And all its glory with the noonday fades. 
And evening shows but heart-shaped, wiltmg blades. 

Like dreams of life ye are, our fleeting dreams 
Of happiness, on which the day-dawn beams 
With glory, purple, red, and lily-white. 
And vanish 'mid the shadows of the night. 

Like cups of pleasure in a moment drained. 
An hour's enjoyment of some good attained, 
A passing ecstasy, a pure delight. 
Which angel-winged pause, and take their flight. 

Such are ye, little flowers of glory brief. 
And yet your span of life denotes no grief; 
For every morn new ones smile open-eyed. 
What matters then if yester glory died? 



37 



AUTUMN'S ORCHESTRA 

The soft light of an autumn day. 

The pure light, which cannot be tainted, 
Hath everywhere its royal way. 

On emerald wold or forest painted ; 
It shimmers on the curling lakes, 

Into the woodland's gloom it peeps, 
On land and sea its wand awakes 

The music which in all things sleeps. 

The sweet Aeolian harp still sends 

Its harmonies from leafy bowers. 
And with the cricket's chorus blends 

Its melodies of autumn hours; 
The languid brook purls forth its song 

To sighing sedges on the banks, 
It winds away so nonchalant. 

Unmindful how its lyric ranks. 

The mourning-dove yet deeply flutes 

Its melancholy through the glen, 
And blackbirds on their varied lutes 

Tune forth their joy in mead and fen ; 
The lowing of the distant herds. 

The tinkling of a wether's bell 
Commingle with the notes of birds. 

As parts of autumn's orchestral. 

The cataract's diapason, 

The moaning of the far-off waves. 
The thousand voices which float on 

Into the harmony that laves 

38 



The shore of heaven, the orchestra 
Of autumn. Listen, my soul! 

Ere it is gone, the "Gloria 
In exelcis Deo" of the fall. 



MINNEHAHA IN OCTOBER 

Minnehaha ! 

Would I could sing thy lay. 

Upon this autumn day, 

Beneath the lofty roof of gold 

And crimson! To me 

It seems a threnody 

Of summer's fulness, often told, 

When woods and vales exuberant 

Were mingling music with thy chant 

Of love and rapture. 

When crowds did linger with delight 

The livelong day and balmy night. 

As for to capture 

The meaning of thy mystic singing 

Divining that it still is bringing 

A cadence from the long ago 

Of romance sweet. 

Of manly feat. 

When all was still a wild untrampled. 

When by the limpid stream 

The red-man yet did dream. 

And in this dell the lovers rambled. 

39 



All this is past. The summer's gone; 

The winding paths are quite deserted; 

The flowers are dead, the birds have flown, 

And emerald to gold's converted ; 

From stately elms, o'erlooking all. 

The ripened leaves in silence fall, 

Borne by a gentle gust, 

To join the common dust, 

Or carried to the rushing river; 

But midst all this thy harp-strings quiver. 

And could I but their notes repeat. 

And learn the trust of summer's dying. 

This autumn day would be replete 

With joy, and not with sighing. 



AN AUTUMN SCENE 

Glorious riot of colors which gleam 

On the autumnal days, 

Like a vision, a dream, 

A realm of the fairies and fays. 

Where sumachs are crimson, and poplars are gold. 

Where the elms and the alders their russet unfold 

By the wandering stream. 

Where the vines like a wreath are o'erhanging the 

cliff. 
Commingling the purple and green. 
And the weeds clothe the rock like a camouflage skiff, 

40 



When out on the deep it is seen. 
E'en the stubble and straw 
Have a part in the show, 
Though ever so withered and stiff. 



THE TRYSTING TREE 

An elm tree stands by the river, 

A-leaning over the steep. 
Its leaves in the sunlight quiver. 

Reflected in the deep — 
The pool where the boys went swimming. 

Full many an afternoon. 
But now, though all clear and brinmiing, 

It is dreaming all alone. 

I look at its massive branches. 

So knotty and so old. 
Whose holes are the squirrel's ranches 

And home in the winter's cold, 
And there on the corrugated 

And footworn trunk I can see 
The names of the boys who were fated 

To battle across the sea^ 

I ween that sometimes they wander 
In dreams to this trysting tree. 

And sadly their hearts may ponder 
That such it has ceased to be ; 

41 



For boyhood's days have been ended. 
And manhood's ways run apart, 

But ever, tree, you'll be blended 
With memories dear to their heart. 

And I will come to thee often, 

The names which they carved to read, 
When daylight begins to soften 

Across the rocks and the mead, 
And then I shall hear their laughter 

And witness them dive with glee. 
But the joy I am seeking after 

Will never come back to me. 



THE CRICKET'S SONG 

The cricket sings to the harvest moon. 
Through the livelong night, — 

On the cooling breeze comes its shrilly tune, — 
In the dreamy light. 

And what does it sing to the kindly moon. 

The livelong night? 
A strange and forgotten Indian croon 

Of summer's flight. 

And why does she sing it all to the moon? 

Because he alone 
Remembers the age of the mystic rune, 

And the prairies' undertone. 

42 



But the moonbeams stole to the waking bard, 

And its secret told, — 
And long he listened and pondered hard 

That song of old. 

Till he saw the mist of its shadowland. 
And felt the chill of its breath; 

And it seemed that shapes from a moon-blanched 
strand 

In the realm of death. 

Did dance to the tune of the cricket's song. 

Like billows upon the seas. 
Or shadows that flit fantastic among 

The wind-tossed trees. 

And he knew they were shades from the long ago. 
When the cricket sang on the plain. 

And man the music of earth did know. 
Its joy and pain. 



THE LONE PINE TREE 

A pine tree tall, luxuriant. 

Stands lonely 'mongst the other trees, 
And sings its mystic autumn chant. 

Which never fails my heart to please. 



43 



Around it stately maples stand, 

And towering elms lift branches high, 

But they are naked as the land. 
And have no music but a sigh. 

From them the rain drops fall like tears 
Upon the russet leaves below— 

Upon the glory of the years, 
The dust of summers long ago. 

But thou, my pine tree, are the same 
In summer's sun or winter's snow. 

Thy heart must have a hidden flame. 
Whose source and cheer I long to know. 

Whence camest thou as seed or cone? 

Where is thy native home and race? 
Transplanted here to live alone, 

A country village lawn to grace. 

"The northwind's song, which best I sing, 
Contains the story of my home. 

Where eagles soar on freedom's wing 
Beneath a clear and sunlit dome." 

"Far in the north, for ages long, 

'Mongst mountain crags and torrents wild, 
My race has h)mined my mystic song. 

Known to the poet and the child." 



44 



"And though alone I stand, I hear 
My kindred's anthem from afar, 

And have within myself the cheer 

Which hath its source in sun and star." 

I understand, my neighbor good. 

For even I am quite alone. 
And far away my cradle stood. 

Where through the pines the starlight shone. 



46 



MORNING 

Like sable silhouettes against the dawn 

The woods and hills by Morning's hand are drawn. 

The spreading rose-tints o'er the lazuline 

Of cloudless sky triumphant usher in 

Aurora's train, whose garb diaphanous 

Makes all the changing shades harmonious. 

Night on her raven wing departs apace. 
And 'mid the rocky caverns hides her face 
In peaceful melancholy, till once more 
Day's restless strife and ardent toil is o'er. 
The dark contours are soon effaced, and light 
Grows like a golden crown on yonder height. 
The sun in splendor rises like a king 
Out of his slumber, while the woodlands ring 
With choruses as of a new creation, 
A Matin-praise, a welling jubilation. 
And like a smoke of morning sacrifice 
The vapors from the lakes and streams arise. 
The kine in dewy meadows turn their heads 
To where the breezes slept in flow'ry beds, 
A thousand odors' subtle witchery 
Call forth to work the e'er industrious bee; 
And man arises from his couch to meet 
Another day's achievement or defeat. 
All nature feels the gladness of the dawn, 
To man its higher purpose may be known; 
Its minutes may like golden vials hold 
The fate for him, which in the eve is told. 



46 



Shall it be joy or grief? 0, who can tell! 
But Morn is here, let it all fears dispel. 



VIOLETS 

I wandered 'mong the rocks and hills, 

In woodlands, decked with tender leaves. 

Reflected in the crystal rills. 

And saw how Spring her wonders weaves 

Into a thousand hues and shades. 

When all at once on rocky ledge. 

Which rose from undulating glades 

Into the river's yellow sedge, 

I met a flock of violets 

Which stopped me in my roving mood 

And kept my spirit rivetted 

To something wonderfully good, — 

Awoke a joy, I thought was dead. 

The joy which only love can give. 

Like languid dreams around her head 

Which in the poet's heart doth live. 

Each look, each smile of fragrant blue, 

Of one thing only spoke — of you. 

THERE IS A JOY IN BEING ALL ALONE 

There is a joy in being all alone 
Upon the sunny beach this autumn after-noon. 
And like the ripples playing round the stones 
With mystic voices in unfolding rings, 

47 



Thus feels my soul *mid life's deep undertones 
The gladness of the solitude, and sings, 
But to itself, since words cannot convey 
The wondrous music coming o*er the bay. 

A lazy fisherman in his canoe 
Drifts like a spectre from a bygone age, 
When^man in nature's lap true pleasure knew, 
A stranfijer to our time's unhappy rage. 
When life's simplicity and customs true 
Allowed the soul in dream-things to engage. 
Such as the sea affords, when heaven its blue 
And gold doth lavish o'er it, and the mage 
Of depths, where fields of seaweeds grow. 
Brings up the Niads in the evening glow. 

Oh, man! thy happiness is here, not yon. 
Come back to her who calls you day and night. 
Her restless and ambitious elder son. 
Return unto her calmness and her light. 
Come, ere thy better self is fully gone. 
Now dying daily in the bitter fiffht. 
Come, spend an hour to be with her alone, 
Before the day is gone, and endless night 
Shall find thee lost, because thy soul is sold 
For things we measure by the weight of gold. 



48 



THE PINE WOOD CATHEDRAL 



(Written in the park of primeval pines, near 
Little Falls, Minn.) 

Thus builded it was through ages long 

This temple which God has made: 

The pillars are tall, and straight, and strong, 

On the floors with mosaics laid, — 

Of mosses and ferns and nut-brown cones, 

'Neath checkered sunshine and shade, — 

Such is the floor, without art-hewn stones 

Which God at his leisure made. 

And the columns mount high to a ceiling green — 

The branches which spread and meet; 

And through its windows the sky is seen 

And a silver cloud soft and fleet; 

A tune is flowing through loft and nave 

From an organ by angels played, 

It comes with the power of a big sea wave — 

From the music which God hath made. 

I try to fathom the melody, 

But try it in vain, alas! 

It carries the notes of eternity. 

As its cadences come and pass; 

But the peace which it leaves in my heart is mine, 

The gift of the temple of God, 

49 



This lofty cathedral of native white pine, 
A fane without creed and rod. 

Though never a priest with a book or the rood 

Does enter his mass to perform, 

Yet censers are swung with fragrance most good. 

And prayers are said without norm; — 

For the soul, which in solitude tarries, does know 

That heaven is here with its rest. 

And it matters but little what things it may trow. 

If gladness divine fills the breast. 



THE PESTILENCE 

(The raging of the Spanish influenza in Minnesota, 
during the month of October, 1918.) 

The calm, warm air is laden 
With pestilence and death. 
And near me lies a maiden 
Just yielding up her breath. 

I walk into the stillness 
Of moon-blanched autumn night. 
In sorrow's rue and illness 
For souls who took their flight. 

I gaze upon the dwellings 
Where dim the night-lamps glow. 
And shadows mute are telling 
Of struggle with the foe. 

50 



Where nurses masked and weary 
Move in Gethsemanee, 
Through watches sad and eerie. 
With Christ's own ministry. 

I listen to the echoes 
Of foot-falls in the street. 
And see a good physician 
Pass on with heavy feet. 

And then again the Silence 
Subdues all earthly sound, 
While Pestilence is stalking 
Across the barren ground. 

The naked trees are throwing 
Their shadows on the lawn. 
And spectre-like are showing 
How summer's life has gone. 

And spirits seem to wander 
Across the russet leaves 
To verdant vistas yonder, 
Where nothing blights and grieves. 



51 



A SNOWSTORM 

Whirling, flying, falling, 
Covering the naked ground. 
While the blasts are calling 
With a wild and hollow sound. 

Dimmer, denser, wilder 
Grows the air with tiny flakes. 
Though it seems the milder. 
As the storm awakes. 

To its highest fury. 

Blinding in its charming rage. 

And like wraiths on moory 

Wastes the snow-sprays battle wage. 

Bushes, fences, houses 
Buried soon are 'neath its robe. 
Winter thus carouses 
Half across the globe. 

And methink, I like it. 

Like its purity and breath, 

And let others hike it, 

To the lands of damp and death. 

And what scenes do meet me 
From my study window high! 
Laden pine-trees greet me. 
Till I fain with joy would cry: 



52 



**Ah, you only living 
Things so near from childhood days» 
You my soul are giving 
Pleasure in this lonely place ! " 

Heavy with your treasure — 
White upon the darkling green — 
Minnesota's measure 
Of a winter scene. 



MY NEIGHBOR 

The golden cross upon the church spire glows 
With lustre from a cloudless setting sun, 
And from a deep-toned bell a music flows, 
Reminding us, the Sabbath has begun. 
Another week has reached this Vesper hour 
Which to the village folk imparts its peace. 
Like gentle rain upon the drooping flower. 
It brings to toilers gladness and surcease. 

A foreign custom this from olden times. 

Transplanted to this western prairie-town, 

A remnant from the past romantic climes. 

Which through the priesthood has been handed down ; 

The worship it enjoins has poesy, 

And conjures visions of a noble race, — 

Of Luther and the better Germany, 

Before this age of greed did mar its face. 

53 



My neighbor bows his head in silent prayer, 
Until the last soft echo dies away, 
And joy is kindled 'mid his many cares 
For all his flock and those who go astray; 
A shepard he, a minister of God, 
Preparing now his Sunday homily, 
Grace more abounding than the chastening rod 
Will be his theme, preached in sincerity. 

His blackish beard and hair, his dark brown eyes. 
So much becoming to the priestly cast. 
Help to betray his blood,when best he tries 
To sound the English R, though unabashed, 
For pride is in that blood which none can kill. 
And consciousness of power the storms to breast, 
And though they failed to will 'gainst higher will, 
A race like that can never be suppressed. 

I see his comely wife and children five. 

Of whom three daughters have the sweetest mien ; 

The lads are seemingly quite much alive. 

As healthy boys should be at seventeen; 

But they have learned their catechism well, 

The Bible is to them no unknown book. 

And all give heed to that clear evening bell. 

You know it from their silence and their look. 

The humble manse, surrounded spaciously 
By lawn and garden and tall maple trees. 
Knows happiness amid simplicity. 
And is another of Christ's Bethanies. 



54 



And may each Sabbath evening bell ring in 
Its peace upon an undisturbed hearth, 
And may thy Paradise, closed to all sin. 
Remain the portals of God's heaven on earth! 

From homes like this there emanates the good 
Which great America most surely needs, 
And if we this more truly understood. 
We should not lightly speak about the creeds. 
We need a faith transcending what we see. 
We need the music of each lofty chime, 
Lest every neighbor turns an enemy, 
And life grows bitter in its noblest prime. 



IN GWENDOLYN'S PLAYHOUSE 

It is on the porch, where her brothers slept. 

Before they went to war. 

Where now little Gwendolyn's things are kept, 

A play-house of varied store; 

And sometimes I sit in this sunny place. 

In this fairy-palace of toys. 

And dream a little of by-gone days. 

And the childhood of my boys. 

It seems but a day or so since they 
Were playing with toys, like she. 
And now they have gone so far away — 
Over the stormy sea, 

55 



To know the hardship, danger, and pain 
Of their country's mighty fray; 
Sometime, perhaps, they'll be home again. 
With their sister, still at play. 

God bless you, my darling, play long and well, 

For play-days have soon an end; 

And little we think, and none can tell 

How things will be with us then; 

But we trust that the light of this sunny place 

May never leave your heart. 

That memories sweet of childhood days 

May never from you depart. 



BETHANY 

There were flowers and fruits in Bethany, 

And a friendly cheer withall. 

And the household cares of a Hebrew maid. 

And a girl with a dreamer's soul. 

Christ Jesus did love to tarry there. 

When weary from hilly roads 

And all the sorrow and dark despair 

Of the human heart with its loads. 

And the simple life of the village home. 
Made rich by a peace serene. 
Was like a brook, as it glad doth come, 
Through meadows of April-green 

56 



To meet the sea, when the tide draws up 
From fulness of lazuline deeps, 
The joy of the Lord did fill their cup 
Like his who for rapture weeps. 

But He came one day when the shutters were closed, 

And singing had ceased in the street. 

When the elder brother in death reposed; 

Then Mary fell down at His feet. 

And in grief she declared: "If thou hadst been here. 

My brother had not died!" 

And the loving Lord was touched by her tear, 

And could not His glory hide. 

He asked for the way to the rock-hewn tomb, 
Where Lazarus had been laid. 
And lifted His eyes amid sorrow's gloom 
To His Father in Heaven, and prayed: 
"My Father, I thank thee, thou hearest me. 
And I knew that thou ever dost hear. 
But because of the people I call on thee. 
That my coming from thee may appear." 

To the men who only wondered, or wept. 

He said: "Take away the stone!" 

And cried to the one who in grave-clothes slept. 

With the power of God in His tone: 

"Lazarus come forth!" and he arose 

From the terrible prison of death. 

And the Lord of life thus declared to His foes. 

That the grave had its conqueror met. 



57 



And out of the sorrow a joy there came 

To Bethany's stricken home, 

As when after rain a smouldering flame 

Flares up 'neath the starlit dome 

To the lights of night which twinkle and tell 

Of infinite worlds beyond, 

But the fires in the night which the darknes quell, 

Have their home in the hidden sun. 

There were flowers and fruits in Bethany, 

And a joyous feast withall. 

When the Lord reclined with His company 

In Lazarus' banquet-hall. 

And the air was sweet with the costly nard 

Which Mary in lavish mood 

Did pour on the head of the Christ, her Lord, 

As a gift of all woman-hood. 

And the grumling tone of the Pharisee, 

And the sordid Judas-word 

Occasioned the master's eulogy 

Of Mary which still is heard. 

And Bethany from that day became 

The glorified earthly home. 

And the houses we build may bare that name 

If Jesus to them doth come. 



58 



THE LIGHT OF THE WORLD 

(Founded on an incident in Hans Nielsen Hauge's 

life, told by Bishop Bernt Stjz^ylen in one of his 

recent and most excellent sermons.) 

Over the lofty mountains, 

Down through the winding vale. 

Wandered a lonely peasant, 

Bodily strong and hale; 

But oh, with a soul in anguish, 

Sin-sick and tired at heart. 

Seeking for one who had found the balm 

Of Gilead's healing art. 

And days of wearisome travel, 
And nights of longing and prayer 
He spent ere he reached the city. 
With hope that his friend was there; 
He was, but alas ! in prison. 
For preaching repentance and grace; 
The churchmen hardly knew better 
In those old spiritless days. 

Most grievously sorrowed the peasant. 
Since he could not see his friend. 
And walked in the prison court-yard. 
Considering how he might send 
A word, a sign, or a token 
To him behind lock and rod. 
When Hauge*s hymn he started to sing — 
Of the soul's true thirst after God. 



59 



And the man of God did hear it, 
As he peered through the dungeon-grate; 
Beholding his friend, the peasant, 
And the wretchedness of his state. 
He lighted a candle and held it 
Where he might its meaning see. 
While carefully trimming the burning wick, 
That the light might brighter be. 

And the peasant-man did understand 

The candle-sermon given. 

And his heart waxed glad as a greater light 

Burst on his spirit from heaven. 

The Light of the World he now discerned. 

And the darkness of doubt departed, 

With a courage new he homeward turned. 

To cheer others broken-hearted. 

0, Light that shone from the prison cell. 
And scattered the gloom of night. 
Illumine us in this prouder day 
And gladden our weary sight! 
Oh, grant us a ray for our hearts and homes, 
A life-giving, sin-cleansing ray. 
Amid the gathering shadows of time. 
And the lights which lead but astray! 



60 



THE CRY OF HUMANITY 

Out of the dark and troubled sea 

There comes the cry of humanity, 

A cry from the depths of the heart of man — 

0, listen well, and condemn it not: 

It is one cry, though polyglot, 

A cry from the heart of man. 

Up to the storm-laden sky in vain 

It goes with its load of woe and pain. 

For nature heeds not the cry of man; — 

The billows roll with a moan of their own. 

The black clouds soar, by the cold wind blown. 

And nought seems to understand. 

Yet, One has heard it through ages long. 

Has heard its prayer with compassion strong. 

And He saith: "0, come unto me! 

Ye heavy laden and weary come ! " 

Man's cry is the child's for his Father's home, — 

The cry of the restless sea. 

And He came with a star in the eastern sky. 
With a gleam of hope to the tearful eye. 
And a song of peace upon earth; 
And the cry shall be hushed when it finds its way 
To the lowly manger on Christmas day. 
Where the Prince of Peace had His birth. 



61 



THE PILGRIM'S CRY 

0, tell me truly, if thou canst, my friend! 
Is there a homeland at my journey's end, 
A land where I may find the rest I crave? 
I do not mean the sleep of the dark grave. 
But conscious freedom from my earthly woes: 
From age, infirmities, and winter snows. 
From sorrows, disappointments many fold. 
From loneliness, and friendships, growing cold, 
From weariness of paths which man has made, 
Pursuing pleasure and the gain of trade. 
A harmony of the immortal mind, 
If such there be, and which I strive to find. 
0, man of wisdom, canst thou tell me this. 
If after all my woes there is a bliss? 
Then will I gladly cease my wanderings. 

And satisfied resign all earthly things. 

* 

The Answer 
I know not, pilgrim, though thou call'st me wise ; 
I only dare to hope, and to surmise; 
The best proof is within thy own clear breast. 
The fact that thou art following the quest. 
For He who gave the birds of passage light 
To find their way through storms and darkest night. 
He gave to thee and all of human kind 
That yearning for the peace of heart and mind ; 
Which yearning linked with hope is evidence, 
There is a home, a rest, a recompence; 
And more than this : Trust him who doth assure 
Immortal life to all whose hearts are pure. 

62 



A VOICE IN THE NIGHT 

**What of the night?** the people asked the prophet. 
As in the watchman's tower they saw him stand, 
For nought but darkness, and a dire foreboding 
Of ills deserved seemed brooding o*er the land. 
Could he, who lived as in the mountain stillness 
Of faith serene, foretell a morning-gleam, 
Assuage the fearful hearts which long had waited 
For the fulfillment of a righteous dream? 

And from the heights there came a voice that blended 

Within itself deep sadness and a hope: 

"The night is coming, yea, the night is coming. 

But morning also o*er the eastern slope; 

The night ye brought upon the land by sinning, 

The morn which God in loving kindness gives, 

For He, whom ye forgot, is the beginning 

Of that great Kingdom which through ages lives.'* 

The people heard, and all the long night plodded, 
And died without beholding ray of dawn; 
Yea, some declared, the prophet's words a falsehood. 
That truth and righteousness shall ne'er be known; 
Still, while the doubters passed away forgotten. 
The prophet lives through all the centuries. 
And souls akin to him work on believing, 
God's better day is breaking in the skies. 



63 



THE MARINER 

Oh, well for him who can believe ! 
Oh, well for him who saith "I know!'* 
Who feels that he can things achieve. 
Despite the storms and undertow! 

Who puts his ship from land with joy, 
And hoists his sails full-mast with hopes. 
Who doth his strength of will employ 
To rudder, sheets and straining ropes. 

Who sees the light on far-off waves 
And blueness 'mid the rifted clouds. 
Who all the threatening billows braves 
And angry winds that test the shrouds ! 

Though deeps may yawn around his craft. 
Though elements unloose their rage. 
He looks ahead, and seldom aft. 
And gathers strenght the war to wage. 

To him the conflict is as sweet. 
As seems the rest in yonder port. 
Life is with glory most replete. 
When with its foes he thus can sport. 

And if the Fates have it decreed, 
That in the combat he must fail, 
His trust is greater than his need 
And is not lost with mast and sail. 



64 



And on the wrecks he strives to gain 
The haven which he knows to be 
Beyond the pleasure and the pain 
Of voyaging life's fitful sea. 



SEA-FOAM 

Light, pu.% froth, which rides upon the deep. 
And gathers on the shoreline of the lake. 
And on the quiet pools in many a heap. 
Immaculately white as snowy flake, 
From which the ancients fancied, Venus 'rose. 
The fairest goddess poet ever made, 
Without a fillet, bathing skirt or hose, 
Though of the vulgar eye she was afraid. 

Foam of the sea, thou effervescent thing! 
Fruit of the anger of the stormy wave! 
Of thee the bards of Greece did sweetly sing, 
When wearied with the battles of the brave; 
They found thee in the calmness of some cove. 
Like hidden happiness come from afar. 
An emblem of life's harmony and love, 
The childlike gladness borne across the bar. 

Out yonder is the strife; — the ships that sail 
From busy haven to another's toil. 
The winds are shrieking thwart their restless trail. 
The waves are surging, moaning in their moil ; 
And man is suffering, he knows not why, 

65 



And hope alone sustains him in his need. 
Amid it all is heard the world's sad cry, 
Caused by its folly, selfishness and greed — 

A cry for love, for happiness and peace, 

For shores where weary mariners may rest. 

But lashing storm the foam-flakes doth increase. 

Like down within a mating sparrow's nest; 

Light as the thing for which man prays and weeps, 

Diaphonous and vanishing the veil. 

Which in itself no lasting solace keeps, — 

A lolling foam above the golden grail. 



MAN 

Man is a fighter from cradle to grave, 

In life's great struggle his heart grows brave. 

And should his fightings for ever cease. 

He would long for the strife, and spurn the peace. 

He fights the elements, fights himself, 
Fights his fellows for power or pelf. 
He fights the devil, and fights his God, 
And parries the blows of the avenging rod. 

Man is a sinner, he loves to sin. 
Forbidden fruit has for ever been 
The dearest, and nearest at hand to reach. 
Despite all morals and what they teach. 



66 



He sins by day, and he sins by night, 
He sins in the dark and the open light. 
And hard he strives both early and late 
To fix the fruit of his ultimate fate. 

Man is a credulous creature too, 
And believes things best in themselves untrue, 
Though he boasts a love for the truth divine. 
He builds to error his noblest shrine. 

And comes there a prophet from mountain heights, 
Like Moses of old in God's true light, 
Or Christ triumphant from Olivet, 
He is by priestcraft and bigots met. 

And cups of hemlock and crosses hard 
He still metes out to prophet and bard 
Who speak or sing against ancient creeds, 
*Gainst mummeries dressed in cloister weeds. 

And yet we should not like David of old 
Place mankind all in a single fold. 
And claim, they are liars one and all. 
And use a proof-text from good Saint Paul. 

For man is a toiler not only for bread. 

But labors for light to illumine his head. 

And he yearns and hopes for some better things. 

And feels the truth when his own heart sings. 



67 



He is marching up through the aeons long. 
From the brute and the cloy of its passions strong, 
And Destiny with its godlike mould 
Is shaping him for an age of gold. 



AN ENIGMA 

0, tell me, ye wise and ye learned, 
Who knowledge of mysteries claim. 
What man is in all his realations 
To all the strange things which ye name. 

Antithetical phases of being, 
Paradoxical powers of life, 
His multiple selves, ne*er agreeing. 
His total composure in strife. 

His aptness for smart adaptation, 
To virtue, to vice and their shades. 
His frown of a just indignation, 
His lecherous lust of a jade. 

His love, and devotion, and worship, 
His hate, and his curses, and spite. 
His soaring on wings toward heaven, 
His groping in darkness and night. 

0, mysteries! who can explain them? 
Yes, one who knew man to the core. 
Who came to reveal man's condition, 
Who came his true self to restore. 



PROBLEMS 

Say, have you a problem, or twenty 
To solve for yourself, 0, my friend? 
The world now is reaping a plenty, 
And has problems to give, or to lend. 

For preachers and teachers and statesmen 
Take pride in evolving some new, 
Though after the war no one rates them 
As much as when less fast they grew. 

And nations which scarcely possessed them. 
Like China, the happy and old. 
Now wake to the fact, we have blessed them 
With civilized problems untold. 

And we say, with a mien selfcomplacent : 
At last they awake from their sleep. 
Since our problems in them now are nascent, 
And our culture and faith they will reap. 

If the world is quite bankrupt and needy, 
And thirsty like Sahara's sand. 
We should not of problems be greedy, 
When there are some thousands at hand. 

So, friend, if your life seems to bore you, 
And things are as dull as a clout, 
Place some of life's problems before you. 
And watch how the new start to sprout. 



A NOCTURN 

The pale, full moon hung in the western sky, 

At the second crow of the cock. 

Looking weirdly through the naked branches 

Of a large elm-tree 

Outside my chamber window; 

Its light fell on the wall 

Above my couch. 

Where slumber I could not find; 

And I gazed upon that light 

And the dark silhouettes 

Of the branches, moving to and fro in the autumn 

wind 
Which chillingly moaned through the crevices; 
Through the open window I heard the noise 
Of whirling leaves like the dance of death. 
The death of joyous summer. 
The spectral shadows that moved on the wall. 
Like staves which were cast into runes of old. 
Engrossed my fancy and carried me far 
Into realms of uncanny things — 
In pagan times of the Viking's land. 
Of which a remnant still lingers 
In the blood of the true-born Norse, 
Underlying all their poesy, 
And worship, — 
The sad realities of life, 
Which Odin's worshipers did fashion 
Into trolls and goblins 
And the wraiths of men departed, 



70 



With the seasons of the year and nature's changes. 
As background for their varied aspects. 
Strange poetry defused through veins 
Of bards in many an isle. 

And he, the greatest of them all, England's pride. 
Did know the magic of their spell, 
Which gave him mystic charm. 
Great Ibsen felt their power all through life. 
And Grieg did hear their music wild and weird; 
But is is unsafe in the hours of night 
For lesser minds to dwell too much alone 
With these, when watchdogs howl up to an eerie 
moon. 



THE FIERY FURNACE AND THE BURNING 
LAMP 

The sojourner of Ur had weary grown 

Of heathen ways and life's uncertainty. 

And though to him Jehovah's will was known. 

No hope for His great promise he could see ; 

And weariness of waiting fell on him 

Amid the sacrifices, he had made. 

And heaven's response was buzzards vile and grim 

Which hovered 'round the carcass where he prayed. 

And night came on without a star or gleam, 
And "horror of great darknes" filled his sleep. 
But from its dephts was born a wondrous dream 

71 



With consolation which he e'er did keep; 
A fiery furnace and a burning lamp 
Passed twixt the pieces of the heifer slain; 
And heavenly hosts about him did encamp. 
While God His covenant with him made plain. 

But God*s great promises and covenant 

Clung to the symbols of that awfull night: 

The fiery furnace! 0, 'tis still extant! 

The burning lamp which shineth clear and bright. 

From Egypt, Babylon and Russia 

That furnace sends a lurid, ghastly glow. 

While like a beam of joy upon the way 

Of Israel that lamp of hope doth go. 

The furnace and the lamp — in these each life 
May find fulfilment of the plan divine. 
The purging flame of its relentless strife, 
The rays of hope which through the struggle shine, 
The pain, the sorrow, and the sable grief. 
Our sacrifices which even heaven doth spurn. 
These are to purge the heart's innate belief. 
And cause its altar-light to clearly burn. 



OLD WINE 

Pour me the wine of the morning sky. 
The crimson draught in its lazuline cup. 
Which heaven sheds down o'er the mountain top 
With a joyous cry. 

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Pour me the wine of the morning breeze 
To cool my feverish lips and brow, 
The drink of the gods which doth unseen flow 
From realms of peace. 

Pour me the wine of the morning's song. 
Which moves in forest and dewy meads, 
Of the far-off notes of the great Pan's reeds. 
The hills among. 

Pour me the wine of the roses' breath, 
And the violets' odorous dream. 
Till I shall forget, or lightly deem 
The sorrows of life and death. 

Pour me the wine of thy lovelit eyes. 
And those lips with the heart-blood's hue, 
Till I shall know that the word is true 
About Paradise. 



IT IS NOT LONG SINCE I WAS BUT A YOUTH 

It is not long since I was but a youth. 

Ay, so it seems! 

And now I wake, as out of pleasant dreams 

To meet the truth: 

That age has crept upon me unaware. 

And all the things 

For which I hoped have swiftly taken wings- 

I know not where. 

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And this is life, they say, how very strange! 

How meaningless and void! 

The things it breefly gained, it has destroyed. 

And all its range 

Is but the shadow of a hireling's day, 

A smile, a tear. 

Oh, may there be some light upon my way 

When night draws near! 



TRUE RICHES 

Not coffers full of shining gold. 
Though even that is good. 
Not fame and glory, mountain-cold. 
Though that be talent's food. 
Not pleasure like the frothing wine. 
Though man to joy was born, 
Not wisdom of the sacred nine, 
Though they our life adorn. — 

A fireside you may call your own, 
A wife whose heart is true. 
And children in whose souls are sown 
Things which they shall not rue; 
An acre land, or working-shop, 
An honest trade well learned; 
The harvesting of useful crop, 
And substance truly earned — 



74 



A friend who loves and understands 

Without a recompense, 

And now and then the touch of hands 

Across the neighbor's fence; 

A kindly hospitality 

To these, and even more 

To such as may like strangers be 

Imploring at your door — 

To have a guileless soul, forsooth, 
Eschewing dark deceit, 
Defending righteousness and truth. 
Though it may spell defeat — 
These are the greatest riches heaven 
On mortal man bestows. 
And sweet content to him is given 
Who in his heart this knows. 



I WOULD NOT ALWAYS CLING TO THINGS 
THAT PERISH 

I would not always cling to things that perish, 
And have no hope of truer ones to be; 
Whatever love of earth my soul doth cherish 
Must have the light of God's eternity. 

I would not live without a holy fire 
Within the heart to cheer my pilgrimage. 
To give it courage daily to aspire. 
To aid the coming of a better age. 

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I would not journey through life's span of years. 
And have no thought how soon may come its close, 
And meet the night with dread and chilling fears, 
With ne'er a prospect for a sweet repose. 

I would not live without the thought of Home, — 
Our Father's love for which the heart doth pine. 
To find the glory which we started from. 
The life immortal in the realms divine. 



TO THE MEMORY OF MY MOTHER 

(A birth-day meditation) 

She was young, and strong, and fair, they say. 
When she dipt her feet in the wave 
Of death itself, on that August day. 
And life to her first-born gave. 

Yea. gave me the best of her body and soul. 
The fruit of a youth unstained, 
A heritage this which surpasses all 
The riches by parents gained. 

She gave me a strenght which has stood the test 
Of all these changing years. 
And what in my heart I deem noblest and best 
Was found in her joys and her tears. 



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And as I reflect how my years have been spent- 

And the heritage given me. 

The joy of this day is with sorrow blent 

For the things lived unworthily. 

But I pray that her spirit which pure did go 
Through her sufferings manyfold, 
May even now my contrition know. 
As in boyhood days of old. 

That her prayers, as then, may intercede 
For the boy, who is still the same. 
That heaven blots out every word and deed 
Unworthy of mother's name. 



CONTRITION 

To Thee, my Father and my God, 
I lift my thoughts at close of day. 

Recounting deeds, how I did plod 
In loneliness of heart my way. 

Confessing sin to Thee, contrite 
For things amiss, but most of all 

For what I failed to speak or write 
Out of the musings of my soul. 

For waste of hours and want of cheer. 
For weariness of Thy great gifts : 

77 



The golden moments, seeming drear, 
The work which counts and gladly lifts. 

Forgive the sin of wasted years. 
And give me grace to use aright 

The days to be, of joys or tears. 
Before the coming of the night. 



THE TIME HAS COME THAT I SHOULD 
CLOSE MY DOOR 

The time has come that I should close my door 

To all the trumpery of humankind. 
And try to live upon the hidden store, 

The light and beauty of the inner mind. 

Why should I care v/hat masks of love or hate 
My fellows wear in public or at home? 

Why should their blame depress, or praise elate? — 
A billow's hissing, or unstable foam. 

Why should I languish when no love I find? 

WTiy should I suffer when a friendship fails. 
When there are silver cords which surely bind 

To realms of heaven, whence Love immortal hails ? 

Why should I live upon the sordid plane 
Of modes and fashion and the silly shams 

That man invents to make his life more vain 
And full of cares which silently he damns? 

78 



Why should I fear what the results may be 
Of my endeavors of a few more years? 

Since they are nothing in eternity, 

No cause for gladness or repentant tears. 

I cannot add, nor in the least detract; 

The Love Divine is in itself complete; 
Its rays within the soul alone react, 

And there alone I may the Master meet. 

And He doth come, as when Jerusalem 
Had crucified and laid Him in a tomb, 

With that sweet peace, once hymned in Bethlehem, 
To His disciples sitting in the gloom. 

Thus ^^all I close my door, make Him my guest. 
And let Him break the bread at evening-dusk. 

0, soul of mine, there is a food, when blest 

By Him, which makes the worldly things but husk. 



79 



COME, BE THYSELF 

Come, be thyself in one and all, 
Come, be thyself in big and small, 
Come, be thyself just every day, 
Whatever befalls, whate'er they say ! 

For life is not to seem, but be. 
Its greatest boon is to be free. 
To look each man full in the eye. 
Without the shadow of a lie. 

If pelf you failed to gain and fame. 
There's glory in an honest name. 
And what we call humanity 
Is richer thus because of thee. 



THE IRONY OF FATE 

To those who cannot sing Fate grants the scene 

Of wooded heights with limpid lakes between, 

The shrubbery of gardens and the lanes 

'Round stately mansions, splendid as the fanes 

Of Grecian deities in laurel groves — 

Such as were built for Venus and her doves ; 

No want is there, no anxious care to weigh 

Upon the soul with each succeeding day. 

But all what hearts desire of pleasure and delight 

Respond to their command upon this summer night. 



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But those who feel that they must sing, or die, 

Strange Fate such blessings often does deny. 

Perhaps a garret is their lodging-place 

From which the evening sun doth hide its face; 

No vistas there but stony streets and walls, 

No hyacinths for tired and hungry souls, 

The music is not of the woodland choirs. 

But rumblings of the trains and buzzing tires. 

And Want and Care abide within the room 

Where dwells the poet in the evening gloom ; 

And yet, 'tis this, perhaps, which makes him sing- 

The need of every sweet, ideal thing — 

And it is hard to know whom Fate mocks most. 

The poet, or the man in riches lost. 



THE MOURNER 

A pearly mist, and a muddy road ; 

A black procession, a sable load; 

An open grave among withered leaves; 

A church-belFs clang, and a soul that grives. 

A priest in cassock, an open book; 

A wreath of roses, a tearful look; 

A sexton's spade, and a heavy thud; 

A homeward wending through mist and mud. 

The neighbors chatter and hurry on, 
But one would linger, when all are gone, 
And weep his heart out beside that mound 
Where his poor mother her rest has found. 
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BIDE A WEE 

Though the clouds hang low, 

Bide a wee; 
Though the cold winds blow, 

Bide a wee; 
Still above the wrack 
Of the stonn-cloud's track 
Shines the sun; 
And what seems so dun 
Shall once more come back 
To its golden glow. 

Bide a wee! 

If things seem awry. 

Bide a wee; 
And you know not why. 

Bide a wee; 
By a little waiting. 
Things may bear restating. 
And the wrong 
Right itself ere long; 
Nought is gained by hating. 
Or the angry cry — 

Bide a wee! 

Have you loved and lost. 

Bide a wee; 
Are you tempest-tossed, 

Bide a wee; 
Is the fault not your, 
Is your heart still pure? 

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Then may be 
Faithless hearts shall see 
What you now endure 
Is their greatest cost, — 
Bide a wee! 

All is your, if you 

Bide a wee; 
All God's ways are true, 

Bide a wee; 
Yours the good to be. 
Yours the victory. 
Yours the joy. 
If you all employ 
Of your energy 
But the right to do, 

And bide a wee. 



OLD AGE 



The equinoctial storm has ceased. 

Clear shines the sun from depths of blue, 

The golden leaves drop from the trees 
And thickly lawns and walks bestrew. 

Against an elm-tree, tall and wide. 

An aged man doth lonely sit; 
His staff is lying by his side. 

And gleams of sunligbi o'er him flit. 

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His hair and beard are white as snow, 
And ninety years have left their trace 

In varied lines upon his brow. 
And on his kindly, placid face. 

His eyes, now dim, survey the scene 
Of yellow leaves and evening sun. 

Perhaps with sadness, yet serene. 

While thinking that his day is done, — 

That he himself is like the leaves. 

Which soon must mingle with the dust. 

That nature claims what glad it gives 
With one, or many years in trust. 

That rest is blessed after toil. 

And sleep when evening shadows fall. 
And summer's glory seeks the soil. 

When autumn's voices gently call. 

And thus he muses long and says 

Within his heart : " 'Tis well, 'tis well ; 

Soon numbered are my earthly days. 

Soon shall I 'neath the dead leaves dwell." 

He rises slowly from the ground. 
And feebly seeks his near abode. 

But round his steps a rustling sound 
Speaks of the love and care of God. 



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HOME 
(To my Wife) 

Weary of my worldly quest, 

I come home to you. 
Knowing that there still is rest 

Where the hearts are true. 

Like the river to the sea. 

Like the bird to nest. 
Longs my soul with thee to be — 

Home for ever blest. 

Silver clouds and waning moon 

In the evening sky. 
Ripples on the darkling dune. 

Nodding sedges' sigh 

Speak of thee, and what thou art, 
Love and peace and dreams. 

Things which soothe the restless heart. 
Free from cant and seems. 

Evening breeze, to her convey, 

And to all at home, 
Hope that ere another day 

I no more shall roam. 



86 



EYES 

Dark, and calm, and deep — 

Like a mountain-tarn, are her eyes; 

And a moment's gaze will keep 

My soul in a spell, till it cries 

For the rest and the joy of their power. 

For the gleam of true love in their depht. 

For the infinite bliss of an hour. 

Which for years has slumbered and slept. 

I met them to-day, in her home. 
While the storm of winter raged. 
In the evening sadness and gloam, 
And unengaged. 
The books were all laid aside. 
The scroll of music was closed. 
And she, like a waiting bride. 
With dreams engrossed. 

I knew that a youth, far-away, 

Was there, in her dream, 

A man that was false, they say. 

As men oft seem. 

And I saw the hunger of love in her look. 

And did she see that in mine? 

And the gleam of light, as the cold wind shook 

The snow from the pine? 



86 



AN IMMORTELLE 

A boy, and a bone for the faithful dog, 
A dog for the boy, and a stream, 
A fishing line and a young green frog, 
A nibble, and midsummer-dream. 

A task and a love for the lad of age. 
An aim for the manly man; 
A place of pride on the world's great stage. 
And a name for the one who can. 

A chair and a cheer for the aged sire. 
As westerly slants his day. 
And kindly hands to feed the fire. 
When the evening glimmers away. 

But the dream of the boy by the sunlit stream 
With his dog, and his fishing line. 
Through all the life lends a happy gleam 
Of the things that we may divine. 



0, TEMPORA! 0, MORES! 

The times in which we live are pestilent. 
Since mammon has polluted everything. 
Who with his pelf alone is not content. 
But must man's spirit to subjection bring. 



87 



I met a youth who came from Shakespeare's play, 
A college-lad, a rich man's hopeful heir, 
Who with the author's lines made others gay. 
Laughed at soliloquies of dark despair. 

Not with iconoclastic self-conceit 
Did he 'mongst fellows cause such merriment. 
But thought it glib, life's tragedies to treat 
Like vaudeville with a photo-comic blent. 

I saw a woman, young or old, God knows. 
Judged by her dress she was not seventeen. 
Knee-long her skirt, and half her silken hose, 
And hly-white and pink her painted mien. 

She was the mother of that lad, they said. 
Who doted much on art and books de Luxe, 
And for that reason claimed, the boy his head 
From her had got, both as to brain and looks. 

She was a seamstress in a country town. 
Before she married, twenty years ago — 
And made her own, dear, modest wedding gown, 
And other requisites to brides' trousseau. 

Her village knight, a simple swain withall. 
Was clerk in the * 'Emporium", a name, 
Which gave a luster to a town so small, 
And gave to all its goods a special fame. 

From clerk he rose to manager, and then 
To traveling salesman for a wholesale firm, 

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And then he joined himself to greater men 
Who spake of business in a larger term. 

In brokerage of many things they dealt, 
In things both tangible, and otherwise, 
And they grew big in bank account and belt. 
And pride required in hats a larger size. 

And Bell, the quondam dressmaker, evolved 
From a plebeian to aristocrat, 
And spared no means till she had fully solved. 
By expert and expensive research, that — 

Her husband's ancestors, on mother's side. 
Came on the Mayflower. There is always room 
For one more pilgrim to assuage the pride 
Of some poor soul who peerage would assume. 

But I have found in this one state* alone 
Enough who claim such gilt-edged ancestry. 
To make a dozen Mayflowers fairly groan 
With martyrs of religious liberty. 

But as we said, Bell found it out for sure. 
And mostly for the sake of her dear boy. 
That he might know, his blood was Simon-pure, 
And free from Swede, or Norse, or Dutch alloy. 

The book which showed this fine ancestral tree, 
Morocco-bound lay on a parlor stand. 



*Minnesota. 



That every guest might note it readily, 
And, if he pleased, read it, and understand. 

Since she had servants, and much time to spare, 
She joined the clubs of varied benefits, 
And quickly learned the foolish, snobbish air, 
Which on illiteracy lightly sits. 

Conscious of this she read the store-reviews 
Of latest novels which she freely bought, 
And shrewdly gained from this and that a clew 
To social life, in manners and in thought. 

Her husband's money did the rest for both; 
Ere long she was a circle's favorite. 
And thrived so well upon its sham and froth. 
She thought herself a prodigy of wit. 

And when her dear collegian essayed 

To sport with Shakespeare and the Holy Writ, 

She laughed and thought: "Not even Shaw is 

swayed 
By humor richer, and more exquisite." 

"0, temporal 0, mores!" Cicero 
Would pity ours more than his pagan age, 
Which had the splendor of the heathen trow, 
And reverence for prophet, poet, sage. 

The filthy mammon darkened has our mind, 
We neither God, nor His great servants know; 
His bloody hands to childish things us bind. 
And in his footsteps as his slaves we go. 

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Runic Rhymes 



91 



THE BATTLE OF GLAM AND GRETTIR 
THE STRONG 

The ghost of the heathen Glam did haunt 
The place where he once had dwelt, 
And he, who was fat as an ox, now gaunt. 
With slamming and banging the house, did daunt 
The hearts of the people with such a fear. 
That scarcely a neighbor did venture near. 
Save one who no terror felt. 

And Grettir the Strong was this hero's name, 

Who feared not the ghost of Glam, 

A valiant man who had hewed out his fame 

On the battle-field and in sport-like game. 

To whom a great danger was always sweet; 

When he heard of the spook, he was eager to meet 

The thing, whether real or sham. 

And so when it happened, the cattle did die 

On that farm, and the people grew ill. 

He buckled his sword, and set out to try 

His strenght with the sprite, and as evening drew nigh 

He came to the place, where he feigned to sleep. 

But seeing and hearing did vigil keep. 

Like a lynx when it waits to kill. 

And lo ! in the night came the wicked sprite, 
A-striding into the hall; 

Then Grettir arose and him challenged to fight. 
Now young and old did behold a sight 



Which froze them with fright to the core, 
For there in the moon-light, upon the floor. 
He strove like a man with a ghoul. 

And the table of oak, and the benches stout 

Gave way for this deadly fight, 

And kettles and pans were flung about 

With many a shriek and hellish shout, 

And it seemed that the power of Glam prevailed 

'Gainst Grettir the Strong, though at last it failed 

In bringing him into the night. 

But there on the treshold, at lenght, they fefl 

With Glam under Grettir's grip. 

And the eyes of the ghost had the horrors of hell, 

As the full moon's glare did their hatred tell. 

Yea, the anguish of second death. 

When Grettir's weird Kari-loom* severed the breath 

From the curse of a frothing lip. 

Thus ended the conflict of Grettir the Strong 
With the ghost of the heathen Glam; 
And the story, repeated in minstrel's song. 
Has ever its meaning of right and wrong. 
When a brave man fights for his neighbor's weal 
With unselfish heart and an honest steel, — 
And the ghosts which our thresholds damn. 

But this valiant deed also fixed the sad fate 

Of Grettir, predestined to fame: — 

On the kinsmen of Glam now descended his hate. 



*A short sword. 

94 



They waited in ambush both early and late, 
And a "friend" did lone Grettir betray; 
For thus it was ever, until this day. 
When Fate writes a deathless name. 



YGDRASIL 

A mighty ash-tree was Ygdrasil; — 

A mythical tree of life, — 

Though it passed with the gods, it has meaning still. 

As we ponder the cosmic strife. 

Its branches spread out to the utmost skies; 

In its top perched a cloud-bird bold, 

On its head a hawk with all-seeing eyes. 

Who veerings of weather told. 

Three roots had the ash, striking far and deep 

Into essence of good and ill, — 

Into Kela*s realms which the serpent keep 

And the forces that spoil and kill; 

Another has hold in the giant world, 

'Mongst frost giants fierce and strong. 

Where might against might is by nature hurled. 

Through aeons and aeons long. 

The third in the kingdom of Asas grew. 

And was watered by Nomas three. 

Each one of the secret of all things knew: 

The past, and what needs must be; 

And the tree was sprinkled from Urd's clear fount, 

95 



Lest destroyed by its enemy, 

And its heavenly dew fell on mead and mount, 

As food for the honey-bee. 

Four deer were nipping its tender buds, 

(The passions which stunt and blight) 

And Rotatosk up from the serpent scuds 

On the trunk to the eagle's height; 

But the tree draws wisdom from Mimer*s well. 

Where Odin did pawn his eye, 

And the gods sit under its shade and tell 

Of the things which can never die. 

It is Odin's tree, and his soul with all 

The soul of the universe. 

Striking root in all, and embracing all. 

Both heaven, and Hela's curse; 

And Rotatosk, chattering squirrel is still 

Engendering ceaseless strife 

Twixt forces of sin and diviner will. 

In the struggles of human life. 

But the fountain heads in the nobler deeps 

Shall save it, and Ygdrasil 

Remains an emblem of That which keeps 

The plan, we must all fulfil ; 

For life, not death, is the end supreme, 

And healing from grief and pain. 

Such be it in pagan and Christian dream. 

Or else everything is in vain. 



96 



SORIA MORIA CASTLE 

(To my daughter, Gwen, nine years old.) 

Have you heard of the wonderful castle 

Of which the Norsmen tell — 

The Soria Moria Castle, 

Where three princesses dwell? 

You have not? — Then come my darling 

And let us go on a ride. 

For the moon is full, and the air is calm, 

And the runners gently glide. 

Let us harness the good old dobbin. 

Put sleigh-bells on his back. 

And given the reins he'll be jogging 

Along the shining track; 

We will ask the moon for direction 

To where the castle doth lie ; 

For he must have seen it often. 

When the black crows homeward fly. 

And if he can t truly tell us. 
There lives in the woods somewhere 
A strange and very old woman, 
By whom the trav'lers must fare. 
And she will invoke the west wind 
To lead us on our way. 
Though she may ask for the dobbin, 
In lieu of a better pay. 



97 



They say, she has boots to lend us, 

Of fifteen league pace or so, 

And when we follow the west wind, 

The miles do quickly go. 

For the west wind is swift and joyous. 

And he sings, as he speeds along, — 

Of the Soria Moria Castle 

And its splendor is all his song. 

And if he perchance may leave us 
Somewhere in the wintry wild. 
And though his parting may grieve us. 
Yet yours are the dreams of a child; 
We'll follow the gleams of the starlight, 
Reflected in your mind. 
And the Soria Moria Castle, 
At last we shall surely find. 



98 



THE BLOOD-STAINED SHIRT* 

Could not three centuries a bloody stain efface. 

Much less a hero's deeds from memory; 

His gory garments still his castle grace. 

As witness to the truth of history; 

And Danish hearts still beat with honest pride. 

Beholding such a relic from the past, 

Before whose vision yet those scenes seem glide. 

Which o*er the ages have a glory cast. 

Holberger-Heide has on Danish tongue 
A firm expression, and melodious, 
For there it was the battle accents rung, 
Which made King Christian victorious ; 



*Several years ago, when visiting the castle Rosenborg in Copen- 
hagen, I noticed with special interest the coat and shirt which King 
Christian IV wore during the battle of Colberger-Heide, at which 
time he showed great bravery and presence of mind, while exposing 
himself to the fire of the enemy. He was wounded, and the stains 
of blood on his shirt are still exhibited as one of the most sacred 
relics from that old and romantic age of Denmark. The following 
is a translation of the Danish historian Ove Mailing's description of 
the battle: "The Swedish fleet laid to in the Baltic, under the 
command of Admiral Glaus Flemming. Christian, who had already 
twice met a Dutch squadron west of Jutland, and prevented it from 
uniting with that of the Swedes, now sailed as bravely to the other 
side of the country, and met the enemy at Colberger-Heide. The 
ships were ranged in battle-array, and the fight began. It lasted 
throughout the entire day, and though none of the ships, on either 
side, was captured, yet the victory turned to the Danes. The Swedish 
vessels took to flight, and the plan for landing an army was frustrated. 
During the battle the king's ship was subjected to the fiercest fire. 
Nevertheless, the king stood on deck with sword in hand, commanding 
and encouraging his men to fight. It happened that a cannon ball, 
which killed the man next to him, tore up a part of the deck, and 
a piece of wood hit the king's face, injuring one of his eyes, knock- 
ing out several teeth, and left him half dead. When his men saw 
this, they seemed to forget the combat, and cried out in terror: 
*0, the king is killed!' But at the same time he rose up, and 
said: 'No, God has spared my life, strength and courage, that I may 
still aid my people, as long as everyone else does his dutyl' He 
grasped his sword, suffered himself to be bandaged in the presence 
of them all, and thus he stood, with sword in hand, until the battle 
was ended, and the foe put to flight." — King Christian was then 
67 years old. This battle between Denmark and Sweden occurred 
in the year 1644. 

99 



And showed how Danish men may fight 'gainst odds, 
And put a larger nation's fleet to flight, 
Yea, place a king among the demigods, 
Because he like a hero chose to fight. 

Though felled amid the fury of the fray. 

Though through his ship was heard: "The King is 

dead ! " 
He rose again to make that fateful day 
Place deathless laurels round his wounded head.— 
"God spared my life!" he cried, and swung his 

sword, 
To cheer his men; and they, with zeal renewed. 
Sustained the fight. His blood, and kindly word 
Their hearts with courage and true love endued. 

Yet, even to-day, when they behold this stain, 
There shines a light within their dreamy eyes. 
For in the heart of every loyal Dane 
The glow of patriotic fire doth rise, 
When he beholds the blood which saved his land, 
And gave it greatness, though by nature small; 
Yea, he can almost see that royal hand. 
And hear a voice to noble deeds him call. 



100 




EMBERS 

"Come, and search for the dead!" 

Such was the call; 

And we went to the Indian village 

Which nestles upon the banks 

Of fair Minnesota. 

The day was chilly and dank. 

Clouds of October hung low; 

The forest was bare; 

Only a few leaves shivering clung to the boughs 

And the weeds were sear and brown. 

On the river-bank was a fire, 

A dull, slow fire; 

The smoke moved heavily 

Over the stream. 

It spanned like a bridge to the rocks 

On the opposite side, — 

Moss-grown, lichen-green rocks. 

Strange and fantastic rocks. 

Standing like monuments 

Of races and ages past. 

The smouldering fire was consuming 

Garments and things of the dead, — 

Over the bridge of smoke. 

To the realms beyond. 

To the spirit-land, may be. 

The things were borne. 

The black-eyed children of nature 
Had wandered all night, 

101 



Seeking the dead; 

Now they gathered in groups, 

Talking in mournful accents. 

We came as a searching party. 

To aid in the quest. 

But to no avail; 

The aged woman was lost, — 

Lost in the cold of the night. 

Lost in the forest or river, 

No one knew where. 

As the darkness of evening fell. 

The smoke grew faint. 

But the embers were bright mongst the ashes, 

Glowing the livelong night; 

And such is the race which is dying — 

Like embers of the past. 

Such are its legends and stories. 

Such is the prairie's saga — 

Embers among the ashes, 

In a night that is cold and dark. 

Next day they found her 
Lifeless corpse in a slough. 
Whither she had wandered. 
Aged and blind, to die. 



102 



THE INDIAN MOUNDS AT ST. PAUL 

As I look from the brow of the highest mound 
On the river, and forest, and far-off hills. 
Which are lost in a haze by the sky-line bound, 
A sense of wonder my being fills, 
And I muse on the ages of mystery 
Which hazy Oblivion hides for aye. 
On the people who built without history. 
In love with their chiefs in this lasting way. 

Though their hands turned to dust, 0, so long ago ! 
Their works have outlasted the change of time. 
And the river still sings in a ceaseless flow. 
As it did to the Indian's rhythmic rhyme. 
For the races depart, but some work abides 
Of mound, or temple, or pyramid. 
And the earth is reneved, and the river glides 
To the distant hills by the gray mist hid. 

From the city's Cathedral towers softly come 
The deep, clear tones of the Vesper hour. 
And the evening lights is on Cross and dome 
With the tempered rays after midday shower. 
And blend with the chimes in a sjnnphony. 
To the glory of God of all time and space. 
To whom belongeth the mystery 
Of the unknown past and its vanished race. 



103 



THE MOON OF THE WILD RICE 

(The Sioux Indian name for October.) 

The Spirit of the woods had changed 

Its robe of shaded green 

To one of many colors — ^ranged 

From crimson, russet, and the sheen 

Of gold, and purple. Emerald 

Was still extant, as a proof 

That 'tis the same in web and woof. 

The fairies dyed it, as a skald 

Responded to the birds' adieu, 

And felt the breath of winter numb 

His hands, until his harp grew dumb 

To that great joy which it midsummer knew. 

But Minnesota's autumn sun 
Brought milder days, and smiled to see 
The miracle which had been done 
To every straw and bush and tree. 
All nature did reflect the smile; 
It lay on lake and wood and field; 
The golden maize was rich in yield; 
The wild rice nodded mile on mile. 
It was the "Moon of the wild rice," 
When women of the stalwart Sioux 
Did gather where it freely grew — 
With harvest enterprise. 

The tepees on the wooded shore 
Were part of all this color scheme, 

104 



And those, they sheltered, even more 
Were units of the autumn-dream; 
Their sable hair with crimson quills, 
Surpassing fashion's artful frills, 
Their faces, like their mode of dress. 
Reflected joys, to children known. 
They reaped where nature's hand had sown, 
And all its realms they did possess. 

The men were following the game 
O'er prairies, or through forest deep. 
And in the hunt sought food and fame. 
While women summer's fruit did reap, 
And in canoes amongst the sedge 
On lake and marsh their busy hands 
Did sever stems from mud and sands 
Which many a wild duck's nest might hedge. 
And gathered in the wholesome grain. 
Which flourished in abundance then — 
The blackish rice of marsh and fen — 
'Mid singing of some wild refrain. 

When evening fell upon the scene. 
With bluish dusk on land and sea; 
And the full moon in sky serene 
Was sending forth its witchery. 
The stag would saunter from the brake. 
And sniff each wandering subtle scent. 
While proud his head he calmly bent 
To draw his fill from limpid lake; 
His antlers in the path of light 
Were mirrored among ripples faint, 

105 



Such as no artist e'er did paint. 
Or Winther* poetize his flight. 

A noise from yonder wigwam caused 
His head to rise, and scan the wilds, 
And while from drinking thus he paused, 
A cry was heard, a little child's ; 
He turned, re-entering the glade, 
And in its murky solitude 
Was lost to view, the kindly wood. 
Receiving him, and there he made 
His lair of leaves in thickets lush. 
Where moss and ferns profusely grew, 
Where longest lay the pearly dew. 
Enamoured by the dreamy hush. 

The silence of the solitude 
Was broken when the owls awoke. 
And from recesses of the wood 
Nocturnal creatures weirdly spoke, 
While from the shadows far away. 
Which mocked the blandness of the moon, 
The awful shrieking of a loon 
O'ercame the children with dismay; 
And cuddling down on beds of spruce 
And hides of buffaloes and bears. 
They hid from everything that scares. 
While mother fed her young papoose. 



*Christiaii Wintlier, a Danisli poet whose celebrated poem, "The 
Stag's Flight," is here alluded to. 



106 



But on the wold a company 

Of braves was squatting 'round a blaze, 

Enjoying pipes of Kinnikinic, 

With many a grunt, but stolid face; 

And with the calmness of the night 

Their humor was in full accord, 

For though the chief felt he was lord 

Of all his tribe in peace or fight. 

He was attuned to every key 

Of nature's ways and varied mood. 

And did not from his heart exclude 

Her true, and happy harmony. 

Gone are the children of the plains. 
Their haunts invaded and possessed; 
Life of the wilds from their domain 
To other regions has been pressed; 
But still the wild rice strives to grow 
Along the margin of the lake; 
And now and then a duck or drake 
Alights when south or north they go. 
The harvest moon, as pale as then. 
Is shining in October nights. 
While in the shadows flit the sprites 
Of Solitude, and her red men. 



107 



WE ARE NOT ASHAMED OF OUR HERITAGE 

We are not ashamed of our heritage 
Of blood, of faith, and of tongue, 
Of the land of our birth, and its Saga-page, 
And the songs which its bards have sung. 

We are not ashamed, wherever we go. 

To own where our cradle stood. 

But proudly proclaim, that the world may know. 

Our lineage of Viking-blood. 

We are not ashamed of the faith which glowed 
In the hearts of our honest sires. 
Of the stream of life which in quiet flowed 
From their shrines, 'neath the altar-fires. 

We are not ashamed of the tongue, they spoke. 
When they uttered their hearts* desire 
In accents strong which severed a yoke, 
When Wergeland strung his lyre. 

We are not ashamed of the noble cult 
Whose genius gladdens the race. 
Whose lore of scald-craft the wise consult 
As guide on the upward ways. 

We are not ashamed of the dreamy things. 
And the gleams from the land of Thor, 
Which gave to the mind its needed wings 
To lift itself, and to soar. 



108 



Ashamed of Norway! let him be ashamed 
Who fails to utter her praise! 
And let him not be *mongst her true heirs named 
In his, nor his childrens' days! 

Yet, let on America's altar-stair 

Our heritage find a place, 

That Norway's children may have a share 

In making a better race. 



109 



1917-1919 



111 



THE FORERUNNER 

"A parcel from home!*' he exclaimed. 
As he read the postmark and writing. 
His "buddies" gathered about him. 
For there was a lull in the fighting. 
And a thing like that was a ray 
Of sunshine in muddy trenches, — 
A gleam of love which made them forget 
The wrack and the noisome stenches. 

"It is from my mother," he said. 

In a tone that was glad and tender, 

Unfolding it there to them all, 

With the pride of its true defender, 

When a Frenchman quoth: "Tis the first 

Of a Yankee-flag in our trenches." 

"Yea, so it be," said Martin, 

But wait till our temper changes." 

And he kissed it, and folded it. 
And tucked it close to his bosom. 
Then thought awhile of his home. 
So far beyond France and the ocean. 
Whence the war-cry took him away. 
Ere his people yet scarcely heard it. 
And often he wondered how long 
It would be ere its wailing stirred it. 

To his comrades he turned again: 
"Say Boys, next time we are going 
Over the top, you shall see 

113 



My flag from my bayonet flowing. 

For 'tis nought but a rag elswhere 

'Round a Yankee-boy a-fighting, 

And be it the first in No-man's land, 

The Hun may take thought at its sighting.' 

The signal came one day to go. 
And the flag, that was safely hidden, 
He tied to the sharp, blue bayonet. 
By none was his act forbidden. 
With a yell, and "good luck," he leaped 
To the top from the trenches dreary. 
While over his line the Stars and Stripes 
Led onward all bright and cheery. 

But there on the ridge of the fray 
He fell, a-mortally wounded. 
Yet the flag was still held aloft. 
While the battle-din resounded. 
And it greeted his last, fixed gaze 
With thoughts of his home and nation; 
He had finished a hero's race. 
And given our flag its station. 

'Twas the first, but a thousand more 

Should soon be following after, 

Lest Freedom's banner might prove, a rag. 

An object of Boche-laughter ; 

And Martin Walberg (a foreign name), 

A forerunner he of its glory, — 

Found on that morning a deathless fame, 

Recounted in song and story. 

114 



AN EVENING PRAYER 



0, Thou, whose glory shines through moon and star 

In the cerulian sky this summer night, 

Who sendest peace upon the world, despite its war. 

And rest to toiling hands and weary sight, 

Grant, we beseech Thee, while we go to sleep. 

To all our laddies, at the close of day, 

Where'er they be, on land or ocean deep. 

Thy kind protection, and the guiding ray 

Of heavenly light, to lift their hearts with joy 

Towards the morn of hope and victory! 

And if at eve the longing of the boy 

Comes over them, 0, Thou, their comfort be! 

For we, their parents, are so impotent. 

E'er since into Thy service they were sent! 



FOOTSTEPS IN THE NIGHT 



In the quiet of the night-air comes a far-off rumbling 

sound. 
Growing louder with each minute, 'tis the fast train 

westward bound; 
And two hearts are beating faster, as it nears the 

peaceful town. 
Hearts which have grown tired by waiting, but for 

whom no rest is found. 

115 



Days have seen them at the station, looking for 

their only son, 
Nights have known them, weeping, praying, till a 

ray of hope has won; 
But when in the silent watches comes the rumbling 

of the train. 
Sleep departs, and all their longings wake once more 

to sorrow's pain. 

Now the noisy wheels of busses echo through the 

empty streets; 
Would they stop outside their dwelling? Mother's 

heart still faster beats. 
No, they pass without the knowledge that they rolled 

o'er anxious hearts. 
And that with them hope's last flick'ring into deeper 

night departs. 

Ah, there is a weary footfall on the pavement down 

below! 
And it lifts them from their pillows : "Sounds almost 

like that of Joe! 
Did he walk, poor boy, a long mile, just a two-bit 

coin to save? 

Joe was never much for saving, all he had he freely 
»» 
gave. 

No, those footsteps do not halt, nor seek an entrance 

to their home ; 
Unlatched ever is that entrance, no one knows, when 

he may come; 



116 



And they pass as does the rumbling of the languid 

carriage wheels, 
And with the returning silence, utter sorrow on them 

steals. 

Joe was wounded, Joe was missing, then reported 

'live and well. 
But his letters ceased arriving, and no other news 

did tell 
How he fared, and where he struggled, far away in 

Flander's field. 
Till the fury of the nations to the flag of truce did 

yield. 

And when peace, at last, restored, made possible 

our boys' return. 
Then came gladness to the millions who so long did 

pray and yearn. 
But a sorrow, like a cold blast of a dreary autumn 

day. 
To the thousand whose dear laddies perished in the 

awful fray. 

And the souls who still are waiting, knowing nothing 

yet for sure. 
They, I think, the greatest trial through long days 

and nights endure. 
For it is the waiting, waiting, with a hope which 

feebler grows 
That seems worse than even sorrow's sure and 

sudden, cruel blows. 



117 



For they lie awake and listen to the footsteps in the 

night, 
If, perchance, he may be coming when the home is 

void of light; 
And those footfalls are like those of time itself 

which slowly go 
With the mystery of life, and hidden purpose of 

its woe. 



ST. JOHN'S EVE, 1918 

I 

In Norway 

From many a hill and wooded height 
The tongues of fire speak to the night; 
The pillared smoke mounts to the sky. 
Where evening's smiles refuse to die. 
Or spreads like gossamer of blue 
Above the vale of summer-hue. 
And mingles with the fragrant air 
Which lolls mongst hosts of flowers there. 

Tis St. John's fire, which changing time 

Could not extinguish from this clime, 

For still the aged and the youth 

Do kindle it in love of truth. 

With thought of him who came to say: 

"Prepare ye for the Lord a way!" 

Who with the fire of holiness 

Lit up the world's dark wilderness. 

118 



Upon the evening-calmness float 

The songs of gladness, near, remote. 

For such a night has joy untold. 

And dreams with poesy of old. 

And visions for the seer's eye, 

With rose-tints from the northern sky. 

And warmth to hearts that childlike trow. 

When St. John's fire sends forth its glow. 



II 

In America 

The tapestry of silver-clouds 

But now and then the sun enshrouds. 

Whose soft, warm rays through lofty crowns 

Play checkered on the Court-house grounds. 

Where multitudes, assembled, pause 

In reverence, for here the cause 

Of Freedom, voiced by eloquence 

Is pledged a people's strong defense. 

For Freedom's call has found response 

In Minnesota's loyal sons. 

And here they stand this St. John's eve. 

Their manliness and best to give. 

Beneath the flag on lofty tower 

Which streams with glory of this hour. 

They kindle St. John's holy fire 

Whose flames ten thousand hearts inspire. 



119 



And did we see a furtive tear, 
While Freedom's anthem sounded clear? 
It was perhaps from some one's heart 
Who knows how hard it is to part 
With him, the idol of her soul. 
Who gives his best, she gives her all. 
And yet that tear was brushed aside 
With hands of patriotic pride. 

The sunset's trembling streams of gold 
Fall mongst the trees and all enfold, 
And on each face there is the light 
Of this the grandest St. John's night, 
The smile of heaven on those who love 
The Kingdom, coming from above. 
Who feed the sacrificial pyre. 
Till hell and all its hosts expire. 



UNCLE SAM'S INDICTMENT AGAINST THE KAISER 

When nations met at Hague to treat of peace. 

You sat high up with saintly looks and mien. 

While armaments at home you did increase. 

And daily plotted war in dear Berlin; 

You played the hypocrite exquisitely. 

And sister nations thought you quite upright; 

They hardly dreamed that such a treachery 

Could live in times so blessed with truth and light. 



120 



We bade your people welcome to our land, 

We gave, them freedom, homes, and goodly wealth. 

And little thought that any traitor's hand 

Would be our thanks, intriguings wrought by stealth ; 

We met your prince, we met your "noblemen," 

With thoughts that blood perhaps is like the wine, — 

A little better in a royal vein. 

Because of age, — and by the "right divine.** 

We feasted them, the "Fatherland** we toasted. 
We spoke of friendship and enduring peace. 
And they were moved to tears, and firmly boasted 
That such a love twixt nations ne'er could cease; 
But 'hind the scene, when banqueting was over. 
They said among themselves: "est ist zu lachen." 
And your "nobility** we did discover. 
As shown by "vons** like Igel and Hrr. Papen. 

And you did use our hospitality 

For planting bombs within the festive hall. 

To thrust your dagger at our Liberty, 

And laid your schemes that she might wounded fall ; 

With filthy lucre did you Judas buy 

To work her ruin, and her trust betray. 

Yea, Liberty you planned to crucify. 

With a Satanic glee upon "that day.*' 

Not only do you act the rascal's part. 

But what is worse, the cruel tyrant's role, — 

Another Nero, with a blacker heart. 

Who Faust-like has to Satan sold his soul; — 

Remember Lusitania, you knave! 

121 



Was ever coward's act more dastardly, 
Than when you sank into the ocean-grave 
Those helpless hundreds of humanity? 

My heart was filled with untold grief and pain, 
That Herod's hand had killed the innocents. 
And I did hope, you might regret, "explain," 
But found, you wrote it down 'mongst great events. 
That church and state upon the whole agreed. 
That such an act was truly justified. 
Your "Gott" so willed it, and he gave no heed. 
To all those helpless ones who to him cried. 

And then, — but who can count your bloody deeds. 

On land and sea? No pen, or tongue can tell 

Of all the misery of hearts that bleed. 

For not since Lucifer from heaven fell. 

Has all his host been able to achieve. 

What you have in these four years perpetrated, — 

The Evil One himself you make believe. 

That he in fiendishness is antiquated. 

We think of your infernal ocean-war. 

Of fleets sunk in the deep, of thousand lives 

Destroyed, whose guilt was nothing more 

Than to be brave, and true to homes and wives — 

Norwegian sailors on defenseless barks. 

Whose courage dared the storms and submarine, 

Sent down to be the food for hungry sharks. 

Because of hatred and your dark chagrin. 



122 



Your needless burnings, and your ravages 

Of peasant homes, of orchards and of farms. 

Of ancient shrines, on which the savages 

Of Attila would wreak no hurt or harms, — 

Of cruelties upon a fallen foe, — 

The sick and wounded, and the fugitive. 

Of all unnecessary pain and woe, 

You bring upon the world, beyond belief. 

We think of Russia, of Trotzky and Lenine, 
And of your gold for which they sold a nation, 
Of all thy slimy serpent paths, as friend, 
And with no thought but rape and ruination; 
Among the peoples of the earth thou hast 
Stooped down to lowest purposes and means. 
And will descend to such a depth at last, 
That all will turn with horror from the scene. 

You've played the rascal, traitor, and the knave. 

The cruel despot, and the Antichrist, 

And now behold the great and angry wave 

Of justice from the world you have despised! — 

Your doom is written on your palace-wall. 

The Mene, Mene, Tekel, Upharsin, 

Your pride and power into the dust must fall. 

And universal righteousness begin! 



August 1918. 



123 



HYMN OF VICTORY 
(Nov. 11th, 1918) 

Now, bells in towers and steeples ring 

Your melodies triumphantly! 

Now, men and angels join and sing 

Our praise to God for Victory! 

Let every heart, whom Freedom moves, 

Exult and shout with holy glee. 

For He, who ever lives and loves. 

Has given us the Victory! 

Our prayers and our sacrifice 
Have been accepted through His name, 
The blood of millions, and the cries 
Of anguished hearts are not in vain; 
The foe of Freedom is destroyed. 
The tyrant from his throne is hurled. 
Ne'er shall his weapons be employed 
Again to blight and curse the world. 

Unfurl the flags, the allied flags. 

The flags which wave with righteousness. 

But without vaunts and foolish brags. 

Nor glory in the foe's distress; 

For victors, made by heaven's choice, 

Must show true Knight-hood's Chivalry, 

And henceforth must these standards voice 

The good of all humanity. 

124 



Now let the guns fire a salute, 

As signal that the end has come, 

The end which shall make henceforth mute 

The hellish shrapnel and the bomb, — 

The signal that an age of peace 

Is dawning in the eastern sky. 

An age which ever shall increase 

With light and love from God on high. 

Let every Christian heart extol 

His holy name, on bended knee, 

Who led our armies to the goal 

Of glory and true Victory! 

Rejoice, be glad, yea, shout and sing! 

For this is Freedom's jubilee. 

And down all times this day shall ring, 

The greatest of all History. 

CHISTMAS MORN, 1918 

When Christmas morn shall shed its ray 
On Europe's shell-torn battle-grounds. 
With all the meaning of the day 
Upon unnumbered little mounds. 
That heavenly word of peace will ring 
Most sweetly over land and sea. 
And come with healing in its wing 
To suffering humanity. 

Then shall the tongues of sacred chimes 
Sound clearer, truer from each tower, 
With angel songs from far-off climes, 

125 



Proclaiming the prophetic hour; 
And altar lights shall brighter shine 
On priest and people while they pray, 
Rejoicing that the child divine 
Remains, though empires pass away. 

Then shall the homes, where sorrow broods. 
See gleams of glory through the tears. 
And hate, which heaven's love excludes, 
Must perish, with the darksome fears; 
And he whose chair does empty stand. 
Shall be there in a truer way. 
And greet us from the shadow-land. 
Redeemed and blessed, with Christ for aye. 

Then shall our boys in blue and brown. 
Who still are guarding Freedom's prize. 
Who still protect the hard-won ground 
From anarchy and dark device. 
Assuage the longings of their hearts 
For loved ones on their native shore. 
With faith, that on this morn departs 
The darkness of the last great war. 

Then shall Old Glory, lifted high. 

Salute the gladdest morn of all. 

And, 'neath the rose-tints of the sky. 

Upon its free-born children call 

To pause and worship, while the song 

Of long ago, resounds again. 

But now more jubilant and strong: 

"Peace upon earth, good will to men!" 

126 



THE ANGELS' CHISTMAS MORNING, 1918 



(Dedicated to the Red Cross) 

The Lord of heaven to His angels spake: 
"Go down to the earth and see 
How the war-cursed lands on this morn awake 
To my Son's nativity." 

And the angels arose, like children do. 
When the hours of their school is o'er. 
And into the night of the dark world flew 
With joy from the shining shore. 

Their Chistmas gift is: to have a share 
In the things of the human heart, 
To enter into its grief and care. 
To have in its joys a part. 

And this they desire, since the peace of heaven 
May cloy ev'n an angel's soul, 
And the joy, which to them is so freely given. 
Doth crave for the wormwood and gall. 

So they went to the lands where the cup o'erflows 

With anguish and bitter tears. 

To the ruined homes, where earthly woes 

Have battened these past four years. 

And they saw full many a parent weep. 
As he thought of his children slain, 

127 



As he thought of his home, now a ghastly heap 
On a shell-torn, desolate plain. 

And they saw how the orphans and refugees 
Were scattered like sheep from the fold. 
With scars on their souls of the tragedies . 
Which ne'er shall be fully told. 

They saw how the heroes in far-flung ward, 
Were bearing some sickness or wounds, 
And the surgeon's knife, like the mighty's sword 
Was keeping death within bounds. 

And they saw how the hungry were given bread, 
The naked with clothing dressed. 
And a glory shed on the graves of the dead, 
The millions of men at rest. 

But as morning arose, there was peace and good will. 
As of yore when Christ was born; 
For man had ceased to ruin and kill. 
And tyrants of power were shorn. 

A cry of victory rose from the world 
\^Tiich the angels bore on high: 
"The god of war from his throne is hurled, 
And the reign of Christ draws nigh ! " 

And the Lord did ask: "What did you behold 
On your visit to men below?" 
And they answered Him : "Thou dost all things know, 
And need'st not to be told." 

128 



"But never our eyes have witnessed a scene, 
Where sorrow so great did blend 
Its tears with joy and a hope serene 
As where we this morn did spend." 

"And we feel that our work upon earth is done, 
Since men have taken our place. 
For they wear on their garb the cross of Thy Son, 
And live all its tender grace." 

"The naked they clothe, and the hungry they feed, 
And they succor the lonely and sad. 
They lavish their care on the heroes who bleed. 
And comfort each dying lad." 

"And they can do more than our heavenly host. 
Among all their suffering kin. 
Our ancient glory 'mong men seems lost. 
Though never we knew a sin." 

And the Lord did smile and said : "Rejoice ! 
That the children of men have learned 
The love which My Son upon earth did voice. 
And His words into works have turned." 

"That this Christmas morn has its meaning found 
With healing of love in its wing. 
Rejoice, as of yore, o'er the blood-drenched ground. 
For the Christ-child is now its King." 



129 



THE HOME-COMING 

of the I51st artillery (Rainbow Division) at 
Minneapolis, Minn., May 8th, 1919 

The rain has ceased, and from the blue. 
Which parts the fleecy clouds of May, 
The sun smiles down, as if it knew 
That this is our triumphal day; 
And ne'er a gladder sight it meets 
Of colors gay and festive throngs 
Which line the city's noblest streets, 
With waves of cheers and welcome song. 

"Home-coming day" — what music dwells 
In words like these to waiting hearts! 
With gratitude the bosom swells. 
The tear of joy unbidden starts. 
As with one soul the crowds rejoice. 
But none can feel it just like they. 
The mothers, fathers of these boys. 
Who for this hour did hope and pray. 

With visage bronzed, and helmet-clad. 

Well-knit, and firm of step they come 

From battle fields which glory had 

For them, and for their state and home. 

They come from fields which aye must tell 

Of valor such as seldom known, — 

At Chatteau Thierry, St. Mihiel, 

The Meuse, Champagne, and dark Argonne, 

130 



They come with glow of victory. 
And "rainbow" hue about their head; — 
And still a thousand hearts there be 
Who grieve for all their many dead: 
Those boys who left with smiling face, 
And hoped to see their homes again. 
But found in France their resting-place. 
Unknown to loving kin or friend. 

Oh, God, what pangs the mother's heart, 
And father's spirit thus must know; 
They cannot truly take a part 
In all this glory, pomp and show. 
And yet a pride doth bear them up, 
That theirs could pay the price supreme. 
And though the sacramental cup 
Is bitter, yet its wine hath gleam. — 

The gleam of hope, that not in vain 
They gave their all for Freedom's cause. 
That all their bleeding wounds, and pain 
Have meaning, far beyond applause. 
And that no grave, made sacred by 
The blood of highest sacrifice. 
Shall lie beneath God's own blue sky 
Without the word: "The dead shall rise.' 

There come the wounded and the maimed, 

In "autos," smiling as they pass. 

And with them those in heaven famed 

For ministries which all surpass. 

Save His who healed the sick and blind, 

131 



And gave, at last, His life for all. 
Whose cross upon their garb you find. 
And in their face His very soul. 

And now there comes a grand array 
Of other men who service knew 
Abroad, at home, who on this day 
Share in the glory. Khaki, blue 
Are filing by, and everywhere 
The cheers resound, for ne'er before 
Did Minnesota prouder bear 
Her banners home from any war. 



SENATOR KNUTE NELSON 



Well-knit, and with a chieftain's face. 
He shows his kinship to the race. 
Known as the Vikings bold; 
We think of him as of some king 
Who brought his liegemen to the Thing 
Upon the open wold, — 

Amid the mountains crowned with snow. 

Where cataracts a-thund'ring flow 

The pine-clad wilds among. 

Where in the vale the birch-wood's gleam 

Blends with the lily's summer dream. 

All rapturous with song, — 



132 



Where heaven's high blue lies in the deep 

Of mighty fjords which seem to sleep, 

Cliff-guarded far away. 

Or, when aroused, like giants rage 

Against a foe, a war to wage. 

Upon a stormy day. 

Those pioneers of parliaments 
Were children of such elements. 
Sublimely strong, and mild. 
And this his heritage, by birth. 
Predestined all his noble worth, — 
His heritage as child. 

The Norseman's love of Freedom shines, 

Like that of the unchanging pines. 

Through all his life; 

And lofty mountain-vision lifts 

His head above the clouds and rifts 

Of every public strife. 

On battle-fields he challenge gave 
To Freedom's foe, and saw the slave 
Emancipated stand. 
Through all that conflict's purging fire 
His heart knew only one desire — 
America, his land: 

Her unstained flag, her liberty. 
Her future's true prosperity, 
He earnestly desired, 



133 



To follow glad her higher call. 
To serve her even by duties small, 
To this his soul aspired. 

I heard his speech against the wrong. 
It sounded like a torrent strong, 
A mountain cataract; 
In motley crowd or Senate hall 
The same convincing accents fall. 
With truth in pact. 

In love with simple life he walks. 
With humble toilers kindly talks 
About their needs and good; 
The farm, the shop, the city's throng. 
Their equal rights, their common wrong. 
By him are understood. 

And with the calm of dale and fjord. 
In power of summer's sweet accord. 
He ponders well 

How Freedom may her children bless 
With happiness 'mid storm and stress. 
How she may quell 

The spirit of distrust and hate. 

The anarchy about her gate 

And citadel. 

Then o'er that placidness a light 

May dart, as when from heavenly height 

Thor's gleaming javelins fell. 



134 



For yet, despite three-score and ten. 
He stands among his countrymen 
A youthful champion 
Of what more precious is than all 
A man can give, the life and soul 
Of Liberty, so dearly won. 

True Champion! with loving pride 

We in thy wisdom still confide. 

And follow thee; 

And 'round thy name we'll weave a wreath 

Of gratitude, and it bequeath 

To all posterity! 



135 



THE AERIAL CORTEGE 



How strange! How passing wonderful 

The aerial squadron, flying far aloft 

Amid the sunny blue, 

Above the city's din and smoke. 

Soaring, circling falcon-like 

In the pure, clear air this autumn day! 

The sun's glittering on its polished crests 

Seems like a laughter of delight. 

Because the sons of earth are braving paths 

Which gods alone dare travel. 

Brave pilots of the azure realms. 

Scaling the walls of heaven; — 

For now the earth, its deeps 

And vast expance of oceans 

Seem too small for man. 

What prophesy in this! 

What things of possibilities 

For coming days! 

The poets' dreams fulfilled. 

And ancient fairy-stories 

Made real in this most wondrous age. 

Above the city of the dead they circle. 
Where this afternoon a youth is laid to rest, 
And dipping down with eagle-swoop 
Drop flowers round his open grave; — 
Brave was he, like his cult. 



136 



And gave his life the path to blaze 

For victories to come. 

Cortege like this no king of old 

Was granted, though with angel dreams enriched. 

Though dust to dust below. 

Still may not he, his soul, that loved 

To sport in dizzy hights be there among 

His comrades glad and free. 

In realms of light. 

And joyous in the love 

Which flowers take to earth from manly hearts, 

And in the love of God, the light of law. 

And all the upward striving of our race? 



THANKSGIVING 

1919 

We thank thee Father, at this mellow season. 
As this another year draws to its end, 
That thou art asking us with thee to reason. 
And think of all the mercies thou didst send. 

We thank thee for the victory which made us 
A greater and a better people, too. 
For loyalty when Freedom's summons bade us 
Arise to her defense as freemen true. 

We thank thee for the place our flag is finding 
Among the varied races of the earth, 

137 



And that its stripes of red and white are binding 
Their hopes to stars where Liberty had birth. 

We thank thee for the name, and all its meaning 
To those who love it in their inmost heart — 
American — which knows no alien leaning, 
And bids the traitor's spirit to depart. 

We thank thee for the harvest of the nation. 
For growing wisdom in our husbandry. 
That nought shall be destroyed as a libation 
To heathen gods of insobriety. 

We thank thee for each heaven-aspiring steeple. 
For worship's comfort, and for Christian norm. 
But most of all for faith which helps our people 
To keep their heads amid a rising storm. 

We thank thee for our homes, and the uniting 
Of hearts with yearning filled a year ago. 
And hearts of sadness, now their praise inditing 
For thousand blessings 'mid the fire-side's glow. 

We thank thee for the hope which we may cherish 
Of better things, despite an evil cry. 
That deeds of righteousness shall never perish, 
And that thy Kingdom among men is nigh! 



138 



THE IRON HORSE 



Over the prairies the moonshine lies glimmering, 
Far, far away towards a lazuline sky. 

Quivering, billowing, laughingly shimmering. 
Silvering manes as the wraith-horses fly. 

Stampeding ponies, and wild horsemen chasing; 

List to the rumbling of galloping hoofs ! 
Distant, yet coming, the long leagues effacing. 

Echoes provoking ethereal roofs. 

Dreams of the child-age of prairies, departing. 
Poetry's realm of a world undefiled; 

Gleams of a glory with lightning-flames darting, 
Romance fantastical, moon-blanched and wild. 

Horses of Neptune, and steeds of Valkyrie, 
Ponies of Aasgard, equestrian host; 

Prancers of gods and of sprites that are eerie. 
Fables harp-ravaged in gold-ages lost. 

Last comes the wild horse of plains and of prairies. 
Vanishing, too, into shadowy myth. 

Silver-manes held by the flower-bedecked fairies. 
Passing away where the dawn-streamers flit. 

Horse of the prairie, the steed of the modern 

Steel-paths of commerce, o'errunning the land; 

Gigantic engines of the Great Northern, — 
Bucephalos-governed by conqueror's hand. 

139 



Nearer the rumbling, the rush, and the snorting; 

See, how the fire from its wide nostrils streams ! 
Smartly the rider himself is disporting. 

Challenging speed with Appollo*s swift teams. 

Breathe we a sigh for the ages romantic. 
Lifts even Pegasus seldom his wings. 

Yet, from the Golden Gate to the Atlantic 
Safely the Iron Horse onward us brings. 

Pullman and diner, could things be diviner! 

Gods never rode like the mortals to-day. 
Poesy past, let us fondly enshrine her, 

But things of the present sing also their lay. 



MISS ALMA RUTH MARTENSON 
(Died December 20, 1919) 

Sometimes, upon life's rugged road. 
One meets a soul whose light is given 

To help us bear our heart's great load. 
With the uplifting cheer of heaven. 

A light which has the mystic power 
Of morning, coming o'er the hill. 

With gladness to the drooping flower. 
And songs of joy, where all was still. 

A light, which shines in children's eyes. 
Like gleams from fountains pure and deep, 

140 



With softness of the summer skies. 
With peace serene of infant's sleep. 

A light of love which warms, and holds 
The wounded heart with mother care. 

And thus to us the Christ unfolds 
'Mid human conflicts and despair. 

Such was the light, we often saw 
In her, those years she tarried here, 

Which bound us to her by a law 
Of kinship from a higher sphere. 

The children loved her, and each strove. 
In Sabbath school and home, to be 

The first one in her lavish love, 
The last one in her company. 

The aged, too, did feel her charm. 

Which like a breath of spring renewed 

Their hearts to friendship true and warm. 
And felt their lives with joy endued. 

It was but meet that she should find 
Within the church her largest place. 

Who was so like the Master's mind. 
Who showed His spirit in her face, — 

That she should covet more and more 
The service of His kingdom here. 

Who did so much His cross adore. 
And felt His presence ever near. 

141 



The humblest work grew glorified 

With luster of the love divine, 
Which did not vanish when she died, 

But doth in lives of others shine. 

Like every maiden did she dream 

Of home, of love and happy years. 
And saw, like all, the far off gleam. 

The crown of life, through smiles and tears. 

When sorrow filled the vacant place. 
Her father's death made in her home. 

She dreamed that still she might it grace. 
As wife when her betrothed should come. 

But dreams, like these, good heaven denied 
A soul, resplendent with its glow. 

And unseen powers with earthly vied. 
When illness came, and laid her low. 

The angels coveted her soul, 

And left to earth's fair flowers her frame. 
And fondest memory with all. 

Who knew how well she bore her name.* 

*Alma means gentle or benign. 



142 



THE POET 

His soul cannot be bound by any iron chain. 
Which man has forged through all the cruel reign 

Of age-long darkness ; systems, laws, and creeds 
Cannot enthrall him, while his harp is strung 
To voice the truth which in his heart has sung, — 

Nought but its law of harmony he heeds. 

The breath of heaven across his harp strings moves, 
Aeolian, from myrtle-scented groves. 

Where poets wandered in diviner days ; — 
With zephyr freedom it doth come and go. 
And changing oft from ecstasy to woe. 

True to humanity's unstable ways. 

True to the things which man seeks to ignore, — 
Things which he hides beneath a rubbish store. 

Shamefacedly, close to the inner shrine, — 
The poet sings them, while the fools do laugh. 
Who love the lie, call truth a useless chaff. 

And trample it like pearls cast to the swine. 

Alone he dwells, no friend is truly his. 

Nor cares he much, since his a greater bliss, — 

The joy to be himself, and fully free. 
His songs may fall upon unheeding ears. 
But through the struggles of the fleeting years. 

He mounts wellnigh to immortality. 



143 



Street Symphonies 



145 



ANGELS UNAWARES 



A poet sauntered down the street 

With thunder in his ears, 
And earthly cares clung to his feet. 

And five and fifty years. 
He in his purse had forty cents. 

And little else in view. 
The landlord harried him for rents, 

And other bills were due. 

And no one cared to buy his songs — 

The cheapest things on earth — 
They were not sung for thoughtless throngs. 

Where art has little worth; 
The spirit of the age has killed 

The soul's diviner part. 
Its heavenly music has been stilled. 

And hunger fills the heart. 

Dismayed and weary did he wend 

His way with little aim. 
When he beheld a rose-bush bend. 

And from its foliage came 
A child with ringlets bright as gold. 

And in her hand a rose. 
She skipped across the verdant wold. 

As when a zephyr blows. 

She hailed him with her trophy sweet. 
And offered it to him, 

147 



He had not dreamed such joy to meet, 
When hopes seemed vague and dim ; 

Then with a flood of light possessed 
His soul that brief event, 

The little girl he fondly blessed. 
As down the street he went. 

His cares were gone, he only knew 

The harmony of life. 
And all the riches which are true, 

'Mid all our foolish strife: 
The child, the rose, the sun, the song. 

The beauty which is truth 
Dispelled the shadow of all wrong 

And heaviness of ruth. 



THE KINDLY CAR 

Dun, grey, and cold the morning rose 

Amid a pall of smoke; 
It seemed so good to lie and doze. 

Though loud the whistles spoke ; 
But up he must, or lose his place. 

He even now was late; 
He quickly dressed, and washed his face. 

More quickly breakfast ate. 

And coat and cap and overshoes 
He donned with lightning speed. 

Picked up the daily Morning News, 
That riding he might read, 

148 



Then gave his wife a hurried kiss 

And babe a slower one, 
And leaving said: "I hate to miss 

That blooming Bloomington." 

He heard it coming, fast he ran 

To reach the corner-post. 
But there stood neither maid nor man. 

And so his chance he lost. 
About the motorman he said 

Something right from the blade. 
For looking only straight ahead, 

As on a dress parade. 

He knew it meant a half hour late. 

And freezing much beside. 
When lo! someone discerned his state. 

And offered him a ride; 
On wheels as yellow as the sun 

Which shone from hazy sky. 
Along the snowy track they run. 

And passed that street-car by. 

He reached the office "on the dot," 

And wore a smile all day. 
Something had touched a tender spot. 

And singing seemed to say: 
"There's much of kindness yet beneath 

The crust of human life. 
Though man you see but to his teeth, 

In all this anxious strife." 



149 



And had the driver of that "Page" 

Known of the good he did, 
It would perhaps some care assuage, 

From human knowledge hid; 
Nor did a score of others know 

That day was better far, 
Because amid the cold and snow 

There stopped a kindly car. 



THE UNREST 



This is not the time to fume and fight. 

But rather to pull together. 
No time to clamor for one's own right, 

But rather the storm to weather, 
For the sky is black with a storm-cloud's wrack, 

And the ship of State may go under. 
If our love of country grows cold and slack. 

And we wrangle and pull asunder. 

The rich may be wrong in many a way. 

But so are the poor, and the spenders. 
And wisdom does not on curbstones stay. 

Nor hobnob with social menders ; 
If you would invite her to speak with you. 

Be calm, and perform your duty. 
The rich and the poor she alike will endue 

With knowledge of life's true beauty — 



150 



To right every wrong in a freeman's way, 

That lesson to all she teaches, 
To follow the gleam of a better day. 

With love on the throne, she preaches. 
For the day is ours, and the throne is ours. 

If we weather the storm arising. 
And stand together in Freedom's power. 

While Europe is compromising. 

America calls on her children now. 

As never she called, and louder. 
To show what we mean by our sacred vow 

To the flag, of which we're prouder 
Since it waved with glory o'er fields afar. 

With hope to a world benighted; 
But the truest meaning of stripe and star 

Is this: That we stand united. 



THE WELCOME 

On the street corner stand a mother, and her son. 

She is tall, and beautiful, dressed in a clean, pink 
dress. 

And bareheaded, showing a soft auburn coiffure. 

In front of her a little boy, cleanly dressed in sum- 
mer clothes. 

Half hose, bareheaded, too, and fair; 

Her hands lying on his shoulders. 

They have come to meet daddy, who is late from 
work to-night; — 

151 



And the boy has been looking for him a long time, 

so it seems; 
So has she. 

The full street cars pass, one by one ; 
But daddy is not among those who step off on that 

corner ; 
And disappointment is written on the child's face 

with each closing gate. 
But his mother comforts him : "He's coming soon, 
On the next car, maybe." 
Yes, on the next car he comes. 
A broad, happy smile lights up his face. 
As he beholds his loved ones, standing there; 
And he lifts the boy in his arms. 
Who hugs his neck, and kisses him. 
**0o are late," he says. 
Yes, dad is rather late from work. 
It was a hard day, warm, and sultry, 
And the office taxed him to the full. 
He battled in the great war of the business world. 
And not in vain, both for his firm, and for himself. 
But now forgetting all 
In the love and happiness of his home, — 
Life's greatest riches and reward. 
0, love and innocence of wife and child! 
Earth's paradise! The great inspirers 
Of noble manhood! 
The holiest we have; 
The anchorage of home and country ! 



152 



FACES 



I look into the faces 

Of humans, as they pass. 
In all the public places, 

A-single, or in mass. 
And it awakes my wonder 

The things my eyes discern, 
And I sit down to ponder 

The mysteries I learn. 

Most of them lack the glory 

Which heaven first them gave. 
Instead there is the story. 

Life's pencil doth engrave: 
The sternness of its struggle, 

The failure of the fight. 
The satire of fate's juggle. 

The day-dreams turned to night. 

And here and there is singled. 
With grayness of the slate. 
That discontent is mingled 
With jealousy and hate. 
And 'neath the mien's concealing 

A fire of passion hides. 
With schemes and hellish feelings 
Its moment it abides. 



153 



There is the painted vixen, 

A butterfly a la mode, 
At home a Donner-Blitzen, 

An angel while abroad. 
Whose only aim is getting 

The sweets of life for naught, 
And is therefore smartly setting 

Her nets with danger fraught. 

There is the youth so sallow. 

With such an empty look, 
Whose pointed features callow 

Reflect upon the cook: 
Too many down-town lunches 

On food, good heaven knows. 
Which clerk and stenog plunges 

Into dyspeptic woes. 

There is the bully bluster 

With thousands to his name. 
Whose eyes have cunning lustre. 

And a licentious flame ; 
He's sleek, and smoothly shaven, 

With quite a double chin; 
But in his face is graven 

Nought but the marks of sin. 

But who does care to dwell on 
The countenance of crimes, 

Of anarchist and felon 
Save Art at sundry times, 

154 



Which even the repulsive 

Sets forth in beauty's truth — 

The pasisons base, convulsive. 
Life's tragedy and ruth. — 

I turn from such to sweetness 

And innocence of mien, 
The soul in its completeness. 

In children's faces seen. 
Where God has still his image. 

Where heaven's pure light yet shines 
From Eden's far off dim age. 

From climes the soul divine. 

The baby's lily-pureness 

Of cheek and brow and lips. 
The angel-touch-allureness 

From toes and finger tips. 
The eyes whose light bear witness 

That yestern God they saw. 
Which, when it fades, finds fitness 

For shadows here below. 

It lingers with the maiden 

Through happy years of play. 
Through gardens odor-laden. 

Through dreams upon her way. 
And soul-life of the roses 

To cheeks its color gives. 
And artlessness discloses 

What in her day-dream lives. 



155 



The growing boy retaineth 

The frankness of his heart. 
And on his brow still reigneth 

Peace which doth joy impart; 
We love to look upon him. 

How bright his face, how true! 
And trust that naught be done him 

By ills which he must rue. 

Thank God, there are so many 

True faces, beautiful ! 
From every poet's Annie, 

Though e*er so plain and dull. 
For through love's simple glasses 

Alone we may behold 
The fair in lads and lasses, 

In people young and old. 

For thus to son and daughter 

Each mother's face is dear. 
And gems of purest water, 

Her smiles, or loving tear. 
And father's features comely. 

Though furrowed they may be. 
Though others count them homely. 

We love their honesty. 



156 



PEACE 



I stood before the Christ of Thorvaldsen, 

Within Our Lady's Church in Copenhagen, 

And looked into His face compassionate, 

And on His hands, outstretched to weary men; 

Yea, gazed until with admiration moved 

For that great sculptor's power of genius, 

I knelt before the marble form colossal; 

Then 'rose, scarce knowing what the most I loved, 

The Son of Man, or the Hellenic art. 

With which the master's hands had Him endowed ; 

But as that wondrous face down towards me bowed. 

My childhood faith was quickened in my heart ; 

And that great Peace, learned at my mother's knee, 

Like light, which fell through rosy-colored panes 

Upon the Christ, came with His words to me. 

And then I knew that He alone has rest. 

Then, with the blessing of His loving face, 

I left as worshiper that sacred place 

To meet outside life's strange and restless quest. 



157 



"DEEP CALLETH UNTO DEEP." 

Out of the deeps of God is heard 

A call to the children of men, 
Tis voiced by the waves and the singing bird 

And the flowers in meadow and glen. 
Tis echoed by prophets of old, and new. 

Where love has filled mind and breast. 
And the call is as sweet as the evening dew, 

\\Tien the toilers go home to rest. 

Tis the call of God 'mid the mysteries 

Of the things that have been, and are. 
The call out of life and its destinies 

To his children who walk afar; 
To come with their load of sorrow and sin. 

To come with the aching void. 
To partake of the peace which is found within 

The things by the world destroyed. 

And out of the deep of the human soul. 

Though hindered by many a care, 
Ariseth an answer to God's clear call. 

Even out from the dark despair: 
"We'll come, we'll come, though late it may b^ 

The light of all truth is Thine," 
And the deeps of the soul and Infinity 

Are spanned by a love divine. 



158 



WHEN THE BROOK RUNS LOW 

When the brook runs low, 

And its languid flow 

Seems a don't care dance 'mong the rushes, 

Then its liquid tones 

O'er the rounded stones 

Has a music sweet as thrushes'. 

I can sit all day. 

Where it winds its way 

'Neath the elm-trees tall and shady. 

Till I fancy well, 

I can almost tell 

A sprite's glad song to his lady. 

And an unseen harp, 

'Mongst the ledges sharp. 

Sounds softly from bass to treble. 

And blithe, silvery 

Is the melody 

Which floats 'round each shining pebble. 

When the heart is low 

From the world's fell blow. 

Then its song grows truer, deeper ; 

And the poet's place. 

In these torrid days. 

Is the brook, where the banks grow steeper. 



159 



TWILIGHT 



I deemed it twilight, with a purple hue, 
Upon the distant hills, which close from view 

The restless sea. 
I deemed it evening with its call to rest. 
The closing of a long and ardent quest. 

When thou didst come to me. 

I deemed it twilight of the gods and things. 
Of which the modern bard no longer sings 

With ecstasy, — 
The ending of an age of kings and crowns. 
Of pageants gay, ejaculating clowns. 

When thou didst come to me, — 

And changed my twilight to an early dawn. 
In which the re-birth of our strength is known, — 

Another Spring 
Of light, and love, and hope, and nobler deeds. 
With thee to lead me through the dewy meads, — 

With joy to sing. 



160 



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